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MERRY-ANDREW 


BY THE SAME AUTHOR 


NOVELS 

Love and a Cottage 
The God in the Garden 
Love in June 
The Smiths of Surbiton 
The Whip Hand 
The Bachelor Girls 
The Girl who couldn’t Lie 
Miss Charity 

The Smiths of Valley View 
The Cheerful Knave 
The Happy Vanners 
One of the Family 
Lord London 

PAPERS AND SKETCHES 

The Chicot Papers 
Letters to Dolly 
The Old Game 
Our John, M.P. 

The Jester’s Window 
Potted Brains 
Chicot in America 
London Voices 
So the World Wags 


T 


PLAYS 

Old / Compromising Martha 
Martha \ Martha Plays the Fairy 
Martha the Soothsayer J 
Charles, His Friend 
The Dramatist at Home 
Come Michaelmas 
The Cheerful Knave 
The Girl who couldn’t Lie 
The Embarrassed Butler 
Wisdom Teeth 
Dropping the Pilot 


All through 
Martha 



MERRY-ANDREW 


I / \ 1 f / r / J 

M BY 

KEBLE HOWARD J C fjw. 


NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY 
LONDON: JOHN LANE :: THE BODLEY HEAD 
MCMXV 



Copyright, 1915, 

By JOHN LANE COMPANY 



Press of 

J. J. Little & Ives Company 
New York, U, S, A. 

MAY 18 1915 

© Gl. A 4 0 1 0 4 8 ' 


A REAL CONVERSATION 


T HANKS,” said my friend, laying the manu- 
script of the following story upon my writ- 
ing-table. 

“Now for the criticism.” 

“Sure you want it?” 

“Of course!” 

“Very well. Since you ask me to be candid, I 
scarcely think that any young man would have be- 
haved in real life quite so foolishly as your Andrew 
Dick behaved when he first came to London.” 
“That’s a peculiarly bitter blow.” 

“Why?” 

“Because that is precisely the way I behaved when 
I first came to London.” 

“Oh. . . . Then Andrew Dick is yourself?” 

“Not precisely. Surely a man may draw on his 
own experiences for the foundation of a novel with- 
out making himself responsible for everything that the 
hero says and does ?” 

“Yes, I suppose so. But don’t you think he should 
indicate which is fact and which fiction?” 

“Leaving nothing to the intelligence of the reader ?” 
“Perhaps the reader may not be in the mood to 
exert his intelligence.” 

“Then let him take it all as fiction.” 


5 


6 


A REAL CONVERSATION 


"Still, just between ourselves, what about those love 
affairs ?” 

“Good morning.” 

“Are they ?” 

“Good morning.” 

“Cadi” 


K. H. 


CONTENTS 


BOOK I 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I Love, a Punt, and the Epistle to the Colos- 

SIANS 9 

II Andrew Among the Theologians .... 21 

III Conduct, Quite Unworthy of a Hero, in a 

College Garden 33 

IV In Which Events Move Rather Rapidly . . 47 

V Andrew Meets Three Editors and Receives 

Three Shocks 58 

VI In Which a Little Lamb, Having Strayed Into 
a Den of Wolves, Is Delighted With His 

New Friends 69 

VII In Which the Wolves Gobble Up the Little 

Lamb 84 

VIII Andrew, Under Stress of Circumstances, 

Takes a Hideous Resolve 97 

IX Strange Result of Meeting a Man in Too- 

good Boots 108 

X Andrew, Having Clashed With the Doubikins, 

Cannons Off Them Into Mr. Plumbridge . 119 
XI A Very Sordid Chapter. Better Skip It . . 134 

XII Most of Which Passes in a Low Public-house . 150 

XIII Young Mr. Petch Draws a Picture of Perfect 

Bliss at Floodington 157 


CONTENTS 


8 

BOOK II 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I Depicts Andrew in the Bosom of the Petch 

Family 171 

II Young Mr. Petch, Having Offered up Prayer, 

Gets Into Bed With His Clothes On . . . 186 

III Andrew as Usher. Minute Account of a Very 

Nervous Day 195 

IV A Jolly Game of Football — and Another 

Little Game 213 

V Shows Young Mr. Petch in a Toga, and Andrew 

Beneath a Street-lamp With Calphurnia . 223 

VI How Andrew Bearded the Elder Mr. Petch 
in his Lair, and Brought About a Painful 


Scene 238 

VII Proves Once Again the Baleful Influence of 

the Theatre Upon Youthful Minds . . . 250 


VIII Mr. Weevill on the Weevill Family, and High 

Life at Warwick Hall 256 

IX Mr. Inchboard Sends a Telegram, and Andrew 


Goes to Town 268 

X Shows Andrew, Not Only in Fleet Street, 

But Up to His Neck in It 286 

XI A Wild Journey to Warwickshire, and the 

Tremendous Result 306 

XII Andrew Lunches at the Alhambra Hotel With 

an Epicurean Publisher 322 

XIII The Mystery of Sylvia — and the Solution . 332 


MERRY-ANDREW 


BOOK I 


CHAPTER I 

LOVE, A PUNT, AND THE EPISTLE TO THE COLOSSIANS 

I 'M doing two wrong things,” said Sylvia. 

'Then you must be perfectly happy.” 

"I hate you when you talk like that.” 

"Why?” 

"It’s so frightfully slavish.” 

"I thought you liked me to be slavish.” 

"I like you to be natural.” 

"Well, when Fm with you, it’s natural to be slavish.” 
"Don’t be an idiot, Andrew.” 

"I thought I was being rather bright.” 

"It was so painfully obvious that you were trying 
to be bright.” 

"Thanks. I’m always unnatural when I’m bright.” 
"No, you’re not. You’re only unnatural when you 
try to be bright.” 

"I was merely endeavouring to keep the conversa- 
tion up to the correct Eights Week level.” 

"Keep it down, you mean. And why on earth 
should it matter to us how the others talk?” 

"I always like to be in the picture.” 

“I know you do. That’s one of your most serious 
9 


10 


MERRY-ANDREW 


weaknesses. You’ve been saying to yourself for the 
past hour, This is Eights Week, and a beautiful after- 
noon, and I am on the Char in a punt with a rather 
nice girl ’ ” 

“A very beautiful girl!” 

“Yes, I daresay you would even go as far as that in 
your desire to be pictorial. It’s an awfully bad habit 
you’re getting into, Andrew. I often feel that your 
only reason for making love to me is because you 
wish to be in the picture.” 

“Not at all. I’m perfectly natural when I’m mak- 
ing love to you.” 

“Just as natural as you are when you’re eating your 
breakfast. It’s a habit.” 

“I was taught to cultivate good habits.” 

“But I refuse to be made a habit of.” 

“Then what am I to make of you?” 

“There’s no necessity — at present, at any rate — for 
you to make anything at all of me. We’ve both got 
our hands full trying to make something of you. 
That’s why I said that I was doing two wrong things.” 

“You’re making me very happy. That completely 
wipes out both the wrong things — whatever they may 
be.” 

“Oh, no, it doesn’t. You’ve no business to be 
happy. You’ve always been happy, ever since you 
were born, and look at the awful result.” 

“Is the result so very awful?” Andrew smiled. 

“Of course it’s awful. That self-satisfied smile com- 
pletely bears out my argument. Young men of 
twenty-one have no right to be complacent. They 
ought to be full of anxiety, full of ambition, full of 
fight, full of — oh, heaps of things !” 


MERRY-ANDREW 11 

“My dear Sylvia, a man may be full to the brim 
with all those things without getting the chance to 
show it.” 

“That's nonsense. The most serious event in your 
life up to the present is due to take place in less 
than a month's time, and yet here you are, stretched 
out on a heap of cushions, smoking a cigarette, dab- 
bling your hand in the water, and trying to look as 
much as possible like all the other undergrads., who 
keep paddling up and down this very pretty, but far 
too seductive little river. You ought never to have 
persuaded me to come out with you this afternoon.” 

“You appear to forget that your mother warmly 
approved the idea.” 

“Mother warmly approves of everything. If the 
house caught fire, she’d stand on the lawn, with her 
head slightly to one side, and say that the flames 
were lovely. You know that very well. I repeat that 
you ought not to have persuaded me to come out with 
you, and I ought not to have allowed myself to be 
persuaded. You said you could write your essay just 
as well in the punt as in your rooms, and you haven’t 
written a line. What time have you got to be with 
your tutor ?” 

“Five o’clock. Isn’t that exactly like old Stiffkey? 
Stiffkey has absolutely no appreciation whatever of 
the beauty of summer, or the beauty of Oxford, or 
the beauty of youth, or the beauty of love. He’s the 
dullest man in Oxford, and that’s why he took a 
brilliant First. I’m one of the cleverest men in Ox- 
ford, if not the cleverest, and that’s why, in all prob- 
ability, I shan’t take anything at all.” 

“But you must take something !” said Sylvia, sitting 


12 


MERRY-ANDREW 


up and looking at Andrew with very serious eyes. 
“Whatever happens, you must take your degree. 
Think how disappointed your father will be if you 
don't.” 

“Is he so anxious for me to be in the picture?” 

“He's anxious for you to be a credit to him, and 
to yourself, and to your college, and to your school. 
It’s a most disgraceful thing to go down from Oxford 
without taking a degree! It would cling to you all 
your life, and I shouldn’t dream of marrying a man 
who had such a stigma attaching to him.” 

“D’you really mean that, Sylvia?” 

“Most certainly I mean it.” 

“Then, of course, I'll take one. But you might 
have said so before. Three weeks isn’t very much 
time for a chap to cover the work of two years and 
take Honours in Theology.” 

“What have you been doing all these two years, 
then ?” 

“Oh, I’ve been tremendously busy. To begin with, 
I've been to all Stiffkey’s lectures on the English and 
Continental Reformation. That’s taken at least ten 
years off my life. Nobody ever goes to Stiff key's 
lectures, you know, except his own pupils; and even 
they drop off long before the end of the course. We 
started with six, I remember, and finished up with 
one. I was the one.” 

“I'm glad to hear that. It was rather fine of you, 
Andrew, to attend a lecture that lasted for two years.” 

“Yes, I think it showed an indomitable spirit. But 
I had my own little narcotic. You see, Stiff key doesn't 
exactly lecture. He merely reads his own notes for 
an hour, and his wretched pupils are supposed to take 


MERRY-ANDREW 


13 

it all down. He might just as well print his notes) 
and sell them to us at five shillings a time. But that 
would entirely do away with him as a lecturer. He 
likes to think of himself as a lecturer. Well, my 
plan was very simple. I just let the man read on, and 
instead of taking down all his dry rubbish, I wrote 
little stories and articles for various papers. Stiff- 
key was awfully flattered, and congratulated me on 
my industry.” 

“Is that true ? Is that the way people are supposed 
to be taught things at Oxford ?” 

“Yes. It's known as the Oxford system. That’s 
why our fond parents send us up here at a huge ex- 
pense, and I suppose that’s how we get what the 
outside world loves to call the Oxford manner.” 

“And what became of the stories and articles?” 

“Oh, they T,r ere published, you know.” 

“In papers?” 

“Yes, in papers and magazines.” 

“All of them?” 

“I don’t think there are enough papers and maga- 
zines to publish all the stories and articles I wrote at 
Stiff key’s lectures. You see, when a man lectures 
six hours a week for two years, you can get through 
an awful lot of writing.” 

“But why didn’t you ever tell me that you had 
written all those things and got them published?” 

“Well, you live a little too near the governor, and 
the governor doesn’t approve of people who write. 
They’re not in the picture.” 

“You mean that you couldn’t trust me? Thank you 
very much.” 


u 


MERRY-ANDREW 


“It wasn’t that, but I wouldn’t place such a burden 
on your conscience.” 

“Is that true, Andrew?” 

“Perfectly true. I have my redeeming points, you 
know.” 

“Will you show me some of the things you’ve writ- 
ten next time we come round to your rooms?” 

“Yes, if you’ll promise to marry me.” 

“That largely depends on what sort of things you’ve 
written.” 

“Oh, then I’m quite sure you won’t marry me.” 

“Are they so very ?” 

“Their characteristic feature is what Stiffkey would 
call youthful irresponsibility. I don’t think there’s 
anything serious in any of them. That’s why they 
wouldn’t appeal to you, Sylvia. Next to Stiffkey, I 
think you’re the most serious person I know.” 

“And yet you want to marry me.” 

“Entirely for my own good. At present I’m like a 
kite without a tail, and you’re the only girl I know 
who could prevent me from pitching on my head.” 

“I’m not sure that that’s a very splendid career — 
to marry a man in order to prevent him from pitching 
on his head.” 

“I can’t conceive of any career more full of glori- 
ous opportunities. Some women marry men to save 
them from drink; some women marry men to save 
them from food; you would marry me to save me 
from being too light-hearted.” 

“I absolutely refuse to listen to any more of your 
rubbish. You’ll either take this punt home at once, 
or you’ll write your essay for Mr. Stiffkey. I don’t 
believe for one moment all the unkind things that 


MERRY-ANDREW 


15 


you’ve said about him. I’ve always heard of him as 
one of the most brilliant men in Oxford.” 

“That’s exactly what he is, and the most brilliant 
thing he ever did in his life was to remain in Oxford. 
If he ever went outside it, he’d discover that there 
are such things as trams which are not pulled by 
horses, and that would upset him so completely that 
he’d die of shock.” 

“Will you write your essay or will you take me 
home ?” 

“I’ll write my essay. I must ask you to stop talking 
for ten minutes.” 

“You can’t write an essay in ten minutes, Andrew.” 

“Oh, can’t I? You’ll see.” 

He threw his cigarette into the water, found a note- 
book and a piece of pencil, and began to write. It 
is one of the peculiarities of Oxford, and an internal 
witness to the insidiousness of the place, that those 
who spend any length of time in it quickly fail to see 
the incongruity of anybody working in it, especially 
young people in the summer term. If there is any 
excuse for such institutions as Oxford and Cambridge, 
which is extremely doubtful,* it is that here we have 
the perfect setting for complete idleness in the flower 
of England’s youth. Oxford, in particular, was made 
for happy sloth. The enervating atmosphere, com- 
bined with the fascination of smooth flowing water, 
old gardens filled with old fashioned flowers, grey 
walls, and the general pervading air of sleeping cen- 
turies, all combine to make Oxford the choicest spot 

♦This remark has been gloriously falsified since the out- 
break of war. Oxford and Cambridge have proved them- 
selves the ideal recruiting grounds of the world. K. H. 


16 


MERRY-ANDREW 


in the world for a three years' siesta. Parents and 
guardians, who have discovered too late in life that 
there is no such thing as perfect rest in the great 
world, should form themselves into a gigantic league 
for the abolition of work at Oxford. They would 
find a very ready response on the part of the under- 
graduates, and, to a lesser extent, on the part of the 
dons. It is true that a fair proportion of young men 
with stronger characters than the majority have man- 
aged to resist the tyrannous convention of Schools 
and lectures; but their efforts towards the revival 
of the golden age, though beyond all praise from the 
point of view of real thinkers, do not meet with the 
support that they merit. 

To the eye of the poet, it would have seemed an 
almost criminal thing that Andrew Dick, at the age of 
twenty-one, being of sound mind and body, with a 
splendid capacity for enjoyment, reclining in a punt 
within a few feet of an extremely attractive girl, with 
willows over his head, rushes and buttercups to the 
left of him, water to the right of him, and not a sin 
of any consequence to his account, should be covering 
sheets of paper with preposterous nonsense which 
could neither be of interest to him nor of benefit to 
humanity, in obedience to the commands of a stout, 
rubicund, childish don, who was himself reaping the 
fruits of a preposterously laborious youth by checking 
the milkman’s account in a little villa in North Ox- 
ford. And yet the youths and maidens who passed 
to and fro in punts and Canadian canoes saw noth- 
ing grotesque in the sight of anybody at work that 
glorious afternoon, and the girl, who had long since 
made up her mind to marry him, actually watched 


MERRY-ANDREW 


17 

Andrew wasting his glorious youth and his quite ex- 
ceptional abilities with approving eyes. 

For ten minutes the pencil scribbled and scribbled; 
at the end of that time, as he had promised, An- 
drew threw it down and announced that that was quite 
enough for old Stiffkey. 

“What’s it about?” asked Sylvia. 

“About the Epistle to the Colossians.” 

“Will you read it to me?” 

“D’you really think you could stand it?” 

“Of course. If I’m to be your wife I must be 
able to share all your interests.” 

“That has nothing to do with the matter, but it’ll 
serve you right to have to listen to it. Here’s the 
subject of the essay: 

“The authenticity of the Epistle to the Colossians 
has been disputed by many commentators. Discuss 
this.” 

“But do you know anything about it ?” asked Sylvia, 
with some surprise. 

“Not a thing,” said Andrew, cheerfully. “That 
doesn’t matter. I never do know anything about any- 
thing, but I can always write about everything. Here 
goes.” 

“In approaching the question of the authenticity of 
the Epistle to the Colossians , as it has been handed 
down to us, we must refrain from striving to prove 
that authenticity by internal evidence ” 

“Why must we ?” 

“For the very obvious reason that I haven’t got any 
internal evidence. You mustn’t interrupt. 

“We must not even ask ourselves why the writer of 
this Epistle should address himself to such a com - 


18 


MERRY-ANDREW 


paratively small audience as the inhabitants of Co - 
lossce. It should be sufficient for us that the Epistle 
has been preserved throughout so many generations, 
and handed down to us, in all probability, exactly as it 
was written. Attempts have been made to prove that 
the motives of the writer are not characteristic of 
the motives that guided the hand that wrote the other 
epistles attributed to the same author, but it must not 
be forgotten that the spirit of the times was so troub- 
lous that all the ordinary analyses of human conduct 
should be set aside in consideration of such a subject 
as the present. It is an undisputed fact that St. Paul 
indited letters to the Romans, to the Corinthians, to 
the Galatians, to the Ephesians, to the Thessalonians, 
to the Philippians, to Timothy, to Titus, to Philemon, 
and to the Hebrews. Why, then, we may reasonably 
ask ourselves, should he not also have taken pen in 
hand to indite an epistle to the Colossians? 

tc Consider the position at this day of the city of 
Colossce. Though a small city, as compared with 
Rome or with Corinth, it nevertheless enjoyed a dis- 
tinction of no mean importance among the trading 
cities of the Ancient World. The merchants of Co- 
lossce, no less than the merchants of Rome and of 
Corinth, trafficked in the banks and in the market 
place. Merchandise, passing through busy hands, 
came and went ; there were, no doubt, innumerable 
sects and creeds and religions and beliefs and doc- 
trines; there was marrying and giving in marriage; the 
men of healing went upon their way; there were the 
professors of poetry and of rhetoric; who shall say, 
therefore, that Colossce was not a fruitful held for the 
great message that the apostle was called upon to de- 


MERRY-ANDREW 


19 


liver? In conclusion , then , we must repeat, in the 
most emphatic manner possible, that we utterly refuse 
to attach any credence to the somewhat shallow ques- 
tioning placed by certain commentators upon the au- 
thenticity of this epistle. And it should be remem- 
bered, in a spectacular age, that it is far easier 'to 
throw doubt upon the authenticity of this or that 
sacred document than it is to advance scientific rea- 
sons for the acceptance of their genuineness . ” 

“Is that the end?” asked Sylvia. 

“Yes, that’s all I can think of. Will it do?” 

“Of course, it’s most awfully clever. It sounds 
almost like the sort of sermons that you hear in a 
cathedral.” 

“I don’t know that old Stiffkey wanted a sermon, 
exactly. We treat Theology as a science up here, you 
know — not as a religion.” 

“I’m very sorry to hear it. They ought to know 
better — all those old men in long gowns.” 

“Oh, that doesn’t apply to their private lives.” 

“Then what does it apply to?” 

“I don’t quite know, except that the great idea 
seems to be to make everything as difficult as possible. 
Still, I generally come out rather well in examinations. 
If a chap can write like that without knowing anything 
whatever about the subject, they must see that it would 
be absurd to turn him down without giving him some 
sort of a Class.” 

“Wouldn’t it be lovely if you got a First?” breathed 
Sylvia. 

“There’s no chance of that. You can’t get a First 
in Theol. without Hebrew. I might have got a Sec- 


20 


MERRY-ANDREW 


ond if Td swotted, but, as it is, I shall be quite content 
with a Third or even a Fourth.” 

“Is that the lowest of all?” 

“Not quite. There’s a thing called a Gulf, which 
means that you can take your degree, and if you’re 
not even good enough for a Gulf, they generally give 
you Group D, which is the third part of a pass de- 
gree. So that I’m bound to get something out of it. 
Would you like to hear my essay again?” 

“I don’t think so. You’d better go and read it to 
Mr. Stiffkey.” 

Andrew untied the punt, and paddled slowly and 
luxuriously back to the boat-house. It was charac- 
teristic of him to paddle the punt instead of punting 
it. Punting is a somewhat difficult feat, and Andrew 
always took the line of least resistance. 

He escorted Sylvia to the rooms which he had taken 
for her and her mother, and then, not altogether 
without a little nervous fluttering at the heart, boarded 
one of the slow old horse trams which would land him 
within a hundred yards of Mr. Stiffkey’s modest villa. 


CHAPTER II 


ANDREW AMONG THE THEOLOGIANS 

T HE Reverend John Gehazi Stiff key, having fin- 
ished his checking of the tradesmen’s books, 
and discovered, much to his satisfaction, that 
the butcher had made a mistake of fivepence in his own 
(the butcher’s) favour, was now seated in his small 
study with his feet on a foot-stool precisely the height 
of the chair on which he was sitting, and a tray con- 
taining a pot of tea and a toasted tea-cake on a small 
table at his side. He was a clean-shaven man about 
thirty-five years of age, and far too fat for complete 
health. He played no games of any kind whatsoever, 
his sole exercise being the walk from his villa to the 
tram terminus and from the tram terminus to his villa. 
Having taken First Class Honours in Classical Mod- 
erations, and First Class Honours in Theology, he 
had settled down, at the age of two-and-twenty, to the 
life of an Oxford tutor. There was no need for him 
to acquire any more knowledge ; he had enough and to 
spare for all the requirements of his life. There 
was no need for him to keep abreast of the times, as 
the vulgar saying goes, for the goods in which he 
dealt could never grow stale, having been dead long 
before he acquired his interest in them. He had 
neither charm of personality, originality of mind, nor 
the art of imparting the information which he had so 
21 


22 


MERRY-ANDREW 


laboriously acquired from the books of others ; but 
these limitations did not trouble him in the least. 
The supply of young men coming up to Oxford would 
never fail; the form of examination through which 
they would have to pass would never alter; a certain 
proportion of them would be bound to come his way. 
Nothing could be easier than to lecture on a subject 
which one had, if not precisely at one’s fingers’ ends, 
at any rate in a large number of studiously compiled 
note-books. Vary the reading aloud of these notes so 
many hours per week by listening to the essays of 
one’s pupils, and then dictating more notes from more 
studiously compiled note-books, and your living was 
assured. 

Mr. Stiff key had quite naturally taken Holy Or- 
ders, partly because it was no trouble at all to do so, 
and partly because Sunday duty was very easy work, 
and enabled one to add at least one hundred and fifty 
pounds to one’s income. And then, if one spoke the 
great ones fair, and attended all such meetings as the 
great ones attended, and echoed the views and opin- 
ions of the great ones with that tone of admiring en- 
thusiasm in the voice which conveyed a pleasing flat- 
tery whilst stopping short of sycophancy, there was 
always the chance that something snug would come 
one’s way in the natural order of the events of this 
world. 

Small wonder, then, that Mr. Stiffkey grew fatter 
and more oleaginous as the years rolled over his 
cherubic head. The busy world outside the sacred 
gates of Oxford might have said that here was a per- 
fectly useless being, who, having succeeded in jumping 
through the prescribed number of hoops in his own 


MERRY-ANDREW 23 

youth, was quite content to spend the remainder of 
his days in watching other young men jump through 
the same hoops in precisely the same manner. But 
the outside world, knowing nothing of scholarship, 
had no reverence for it; whilst Mr. Stiffkey passed 
his days amongst those who revered scholarship for 
its own sake, and would never have dreamed of rang- 
ing themselves with the mere utilitarians by demand- 
ing that scholarship should be turned to some useful 
account in the general progression and betterment of 
the world. 

Mr. Stiffkey smiled when Andrew’s name was 
brought up to him. One of the pleasant sides of his 
life lay in meeting young men who would never suc- 
ceed in jumping through as many hoops or such high 
hoops as those through which Mr. Stiffkey had 
jumped. It was no affair of his that Mr. Andrew 
Dick, for example, had small aptitude for the science 
of Theology. It was not even any affair of his to 
see that Mr. Dick bore himself well in his examination. 
Mr. Stiffkey was no crammer. He did not guaran- 
tee that his pupils would acquit themselves with fly- 
ing colours. Those under him were sent to him in 
the ordinary course of events, having already decided 
to take up the Honour Theological School. He was 
paid to tell them all the things that he had learnt 
himself at their age; if they were possessed of his 
aptitude they would acquit themselves as well as he 
had acquitted himself ; if they were not, so much the 
worse for them. In any case, as soon as the exam- 
ination began, Mr. Stiffkey was rid of them, save, 
perhaps, for the tiresome but quite small matter of 
sending them their marks when all was over. 


24 


MERRY-ANDREW 


“Good afternoon,” said Mr. Stiffkey, putting the 
last piece of tea-cake into his mouth, and elaborately- 
wiping his fingers with a not very clean pocket hand- 
kerchief. “Sit down there, will you ? You’ve brought 
me an essay, I think.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Andrew, considerably less com- 
posed in manner than when he had been reclining at 
Sylvia’s feet in the punt on the Char. 

“Very good. Just read it, will you?” 

So Andrew read his essay. It was dreadfully short, 
and dreadfully silly, and seemed all the shorter and 
all the sillier now that he was reading it to his tutor. 
He made the most of it, however, reading as slowly 
as possible, and lingering on the high sounding 
phrases. None the less, in about two minutes he came 
to a full stop, and looked at Mr. Stiffkey. Mr. Stiff- 
key was smiling — a half tolerant, half contemptuous 
smile. 

“D’you write for the papers, Mr. Dick?” he asked. 

Andrew flushed with pleasure at the compliment 
which he felt was coming. “Yes, sir, I write a good 
deal for various papers.” 

“I thought so. Your essay, though short, Mr. Dick, 
shows a certain amount of ingenuity which reveals 
the touch of the writer for the papers. (Mr. Stiffkey 
mentioned the word ‘papers’ in the tone of one who 
had heard, somewhat vaguely, of all those fluttering 
sheets of printed matter, but for whom they had no 
actual concern, living, as he did, in a world so far 
apart and so vastly more rarefied.) I need hardly 
point out to you, Mr. Dick, that you know nothing 
whatever about the subject, and the time of your ex- 
amination is now very near. The question is, how are 


MERRY-ANDREW 


25 


you likely to fare in that examination? In the jargon 
of the Schools, what do you expect to get ?” 

“I thought perhaps I might get a Third, sir.” 

Mr. Stiffkey pursed up his lips. “I see very little 
chance of it,” he said, “unless you can accomplish 
wonders between now and the first day of the Schools. 
Is it of very great importance to you to secure your 
degree ?” 

“I should certainly like to do so, sir,” said Andrew, 
remembering Sylvia’s words on the river. 

“Yes, of course, but what I mean is, is it of very 
great importance to you as a means of earning your 
living after you leave Oxford?” 

“Oh, no, sir. My father is very well off, and I am 
the only child. I shall never have to earn my own 
living.” 

“Then you are taking the Honour Schools of Theol- 
ogy, Mr. Dick, in much the same mood as you write 
for the papers — that is, just for fun.” 

“Well, sir, not exactly. The fact is that I have a 
great-aunt who is extremely anxious that I shall be- 
come a clergyman, and as she has always been rather 
a trump to me I don’t like to disappoint the old lady.” 

“I see. And will your great-aunt be satisfied, Mr. 
Dick, if you secure nothing better than a Fourth 
Class, or even less than that?” 

“Perfectly,” said Andrew, with engaging frankness. 
“She’d never know the difference between a Fourth 
Class and a First. So long as I take a degree oT some 
sort, and can eventually write M.A. after my name, 
the old lady will be as pleased as a cricket.” 

“In that case,” replied Mr. Stiffkey, with a sudden 
gush of unwonted humour, “we’d better set our com- 


MERRY-ANDREW 


26 

bined wits at work to make your great-aunt as pleased 
as a cricket. Mr. Dick, I may tell you frankly that 
the only chance you have of getting anything at all 
in this School is to go to a coach for six hours a day, 
and put in another six at your own rooms. I will get 
into touch with a very good man — an old pupil of my 
own — who will be precisely the person you require. 
In the meantime, just take down these notes.” 

And Mr. Stiff key, like the conscientious tutor he 
was, filled in the remainder of the hour by reading 
slowly from one of his fat note-books. 

Sylvia and her mother left Oxford directly they 
heard of the solemn warning spoken by Mr. Stiffkey, 
having faithfully promised that Andrew’s father 
should remain in ignorance of the exact state of 
affairs. 

“After all,” as Andrew put it, “why worry the old 
man? He can’t do anything in the matter — it’s all 
up to me. If I get utterly ploughed he’ll know quite 
soon enough, and, if I scrape up a Third, he’ll be 
no end delighted.” 

For the next three weeks, therefore, he worked as 
he had never worked in his life. Six hours of each 
day, Sundays excepted, were spent in the company 
of a rather sickly person named Glead, who had been 
warmly recommended to Andrew by Mr. Stiffkey. 
Glead was a kind of academic spider. He was per- 
fectly at home in libraries, museums, examination- 
rooms, and dark stuffy places of that sort. He was 
the kind of person — having this in common with Mr. 
Stiffkey — for whom the older university systems ap- 
pear to have been invented. It is impossible to think 


MERRY-ANDREW 


27 


of dead away from Oxford — except at Cambridge. 
He had taken a brilliant degree himself, not from 
any inborn love of scholarship, and certainly not 
from any great mental power, dead battened on 
examinations merely because he had the extraordinary 
faculty of being able to read the brains of the ex- 
aminers. Give dead any of the set books for any 
of the Schools and he would tell you, in an instant, 
the passages that were most likely to be given in that 
particular year. Part of his system, of course, was 
to keep a file of all papers set in such Schools as he 
was interested in, so that he could trace the various 
histories of various questions, and know precisely 
when a certain question or a certain passage would 
come full cycle. 

But that was mere routine work. Lots of small cram- 
mers in Oxford could do that, dead's specialty, as 
we have said, was reading into the minds of the ex- 
aminers. He could not only tell you, from knowing 
the personalities of the men who were to examine, 
the questions that they would set, but he could also 
tell you just how these questions should be answered. 
Everybody who knows anything about the ancient 
academic systems is well aware that an examiner 
has as many crotchets and prejudices as an old 
maid in a cathedral city. It is not sufficient that the 
answer to a question shall be correct ; it must be cor- 
rect with a certain sort of correctness. It is not 
sufficient that the examinee has read and duly noted 
some eminent authority upon a disputed passage; it 
is necessary that he should have read a certain eminent 
authority on that passage, and, if the examiner him- 
self happens to be an eminent authority on that dis- 


28 


MERRY-ANDREW 


puted passage, it is only natural that he should be 
pleased to come across his own views served up in the 
examination-paper which he is correcting. 

Now Glead knew all these things. Glead knew 
which men had written books on which subjects. 
He knew, of course, everything about the men who 
would examine Andrew. He knew who they were, 
and where they lived, and what their careers had been, 
and who were their friends. He knew what their 
prejudices were; he could tick off their mental corns 
for you with the accuracy and precision of a cash 
register. That was why men went to Glead, and that 
was why he could exact an exorbitant fee for his 
time. Very few men could afford to hire Glead, but 
at this time of the year he worked very hard indeed, 
and reaped a rich harvest. 

Andrew had to share his lessons with three other 
men who looked as though they intended to become 
bishops, and, by this time, are probably in a fair way 
to realise their ambitions. When he was not work- 
ing with Glead, he would go to the Union Library, 
or the College Library, and hold his aching head as 
he endeavoured to fill his brain with the passages and 
chapters of which Glead would give him a list. The 
sun shone, the waters of the Cherwell and the Isis 
rippled in the summer breezes, the tennis-courts and 
the cricket grounds were gay with flannelled youth, 
the theatre was putting its best leg foremost, smok- 
ing concerts were in full swing — all the allurements 
of Oxford in the summer term, in fact, were spread 
out in tempting array before this young man who had 
an exceptional capacity and natural aptitude for the 
pleasures of life. But he thought of Sylvia, and he 


MERRY-ANDREW 


£9 


thought of his father, and steadily shut his eyes to 
everything but the wearisome, dusty books so beloved 
of Stiffkey and dead. He was too young to realise 
that a man may be clever in one way, and extremely 
stupid in another. Glead could not have written an 
original line to save his life, but he could read a chap- 
ter of profound disquisition on the meaning of an ob- 
scure passage in Isaiah, and remember every word 
of it. 

Andrew patiently and pluckily worried through 
every line of every book recommended to him by 
Glead, and he had a vague sort of notion that he was 
acquiring a tremendous lot of information which must 
certainly bring him a reward in the Schools. The 
sad truth of the matter was quite otherwise. He read 
the words, and he read the foot-notes, but he might 
just as well have been reading the Sportsman for all 
the benefit he received from his labours. 

At last the first day of the Honour School of 
Theology came round, and he walked down the 
High in a pair of old pumps, a pair of grey flannel 
trousers, a short black coat, a white tie, and a rather 
battered “square.” Two or three hundred other young 
men, dressed in precisely the same way, and all try- 
ing to conceal the nervousness they were feeling by 
puffing the prohibited cigarette — prohibited because 
they were in academic costume — were also on their 
way to the Schools. About forty of them were taking 
the Honour Theological School; most of these were 
known by sight to Andrew, and he was on speaking 
terms with about half-a-dozen of them. 

The victims assembled in the large entrance hall of 
the Examination Schools, and were summoned in 


MERRY-ANDREW 


SO 

batches to their various rooms by the ringing of an 
electric bell. Whenever the bell rang, an attendant 
bawled out the name of the School and the number of 
the room. Then, with a little sickly farewell grin 
at their comrades, the wretched youths trooped off 
to wrestle with the task of committing to paper the 
matter with which they had been stuffing their brains 
for the past two years. Andrew prided himself that 
he was extremely cool and self-possessed, but his face 
was pale, though he would have been surprised to 
hear it, and his heart gave a curious little leap when 
the name of his own School was called. Off he went, 
up the broad stone stairway, and into a quiet room 
furnished with little tables, pots of ink, blotting- 
paper and pens. He soon found the table allotted to 
him, and sat down to read the paper on the English 
[Reformation. He was glad that the examination opened 
with the paper on English Reformation because this 
subject appealed to him more, perhaps, than any other. 
Even old Stiffkey had not quite succeeded in squeezing 
all the humanity out of the English Reformation, and 
the learned historians over whose books he had been 
poring in the libraries had not been able, their su- 
preme efforts notwithstanding, to suppress all the 
romance of that subtle chapter in the history of Eng- 
land. 

Andrew soon began to write, and, because he was 
a born writer, his brain kindled as he worked and 
he wrote well. His knowledge, poor lad, was of the 
most meagre description, but what he lacked in know- 
ledge he made up for in argument and imaginative de- 
tail, so that he really felt distinctly pleased with him- 
self when he handed in his paper, and walked down 


MERRY-ANDREW 


81 


the stairs and out into the sunshine of the High. 
Men who were not taking any Schools that term looked 
at him with commiseration as he passed, and one or 
two men whom he knew asked him how he had got 
on. 

“Much better than I expected,” was his reply, and 
they wished him luck. 

In the afternoon he had his paper on Isaiah, one of 
the special books, and again he wrote with a nimble 
pen and a glowing brain. 

“It would really be a great scoop,” he thought to 
himself as he went back to his rooms to read up some 
special passages marked for him by Glead, “if I pulled 
off a Third ! Surely they must see that Fm not alto- 
gether a dullard, even though I may not know as much 
about the subjects as some of the others! After all, 
the object of an examination is to test a man’s ability. 
If a man shows the ability to grasp the more leading 
questions put to him, that ought to make up for his 
lack of facts and figures and references.” 

Glead could have undeceived him on this point, for 
Glead knew his Oxford. In this Glead differed from 
Stiffkey, and was by so much wiser than Stiffkey. 
Stiffkey knew that the examination system was purely 
a test of the ability to learn from books, and he saw 
no reason to find fault with the system on that account. 
Glead also knew what the system meant, but he was 
sharp enough to realise that a test of that description 
was not worth a rap when applied to the conditions 
of life outside the university. But Glead, although 
he knew the worthlessness of the examination system, 
was far too shrewd to stand in the way of his own 
interests by raising a finger in Convocation for any 


32 


MERRY-ANDREW 


change in the routine. At present they all knew what 
they were at, but once let change and common sense 
creep in, and the whole academic fabric might be 
tumbling about their ears before they realised what 
they had done. 

The examination was over at last and Andrew wrote 
as follows to Sylvia : — 

“Of course, one must not be too hopeful, but I 
shall really be very surprised if I haven’t got a Third. 
I’m sure I’ve written enough in the last few days to 
fill a library. Some of the questions really appealed 
to me, and I let myself go on them. I often thought 
when I was writing that it’s rather a shame to destroy 
all the work done in the Schools. When you come 
to think of it, there must be a lot of stuff written 
that would be worth printing. I hope all this doesn’t 
sound as if I were frightfully bucked with myself, 
but I can say things to you that I couldn’t say to 
anybody else, because you know me so well, and you 
always understand. 

“Well, nothing can be done now except wait for the 
‘ Viva ’ I mean to enjoy the last few days of my last 
term, and then we’ll have plenty of tennis and motor- 
ing and all sorts of fun — until the ‘Viva.’ 

Yours ever, — A. 

“P. S. I was awfully sorry to hear about the poor 
old governor, but he has had these attacks before, 
and so I don’t take them too seriously. All my love.” 


CHAPTER III 


CONDUCT, QUITE UNWORTHY OF A HERO, IN A COLLEGE 
GARDEN 



HOSE days of high summer between the end 


of term and the viva voce examination were 


long remembered by Andrew as some of the 
happiest in his life. The sun shone, Sylvia was his 
constant companion, he had done with dull text-books 
and examinations for ever; the future was rolled out 
before him like a moss-carpeted glade strewn with 
petals of roses. 

The one grey patch in this fairylike vista was the 
health of his father. Years ago, in his own under- 
graduate days, Mr. Dick had strained his heart whilst 
rowing for his college, in loyal obedience to the com- 
mands of the coach on the towing path, who had bel- 
lowed to him to “kill himself.” Mr. Dick had not 
quite killed himself, but, in his youthful and passion- 
ate desire to win the approbation of the great ones, 
he had brought on an attack of angina pectoris , with 
the result that he had never since been a hale and 
sound man. Andrew had become accustomed to his 
father’s periodical attacks, but he could not help per- 
ceiving that Mr. Dick looked older and feebler than 
his age warranted. 

Once or twice, moreover, it appeared to Andrew that 
his father had something on his mind. He seemed 


S3 


34 


MERRY-ANDREW 


to attach an altogether unnecessary importance to the 
result of the examination. He put some questions to 
his son as to his chances of taking his degree, and 
seemed curiously relieved when Andrew assured him 
that there was not the slightest cause for anxiety on 
that score. 

"I’m very glad to hear it,” said Mr. Dick, “partly 
because I should not like my son to fail, and also for 
the reason that your Aunt Ursula has so set her heart 
on your becoming a clergyman. As you know, the 
living of Tresham is in her gift, and she is undoubtedly 
keeping it warm for you. As livings go, it is very well 
worth having, and you can then get married as soon 
as you wish.” 

Andrew accepted the idea of this ready-made career 
with the usual equanimity of the young man with 
whom nothing in this world has ever gone agley. He 
had no irresistible craving to become the rector of 
Tresham, or, indeed, to become a clergyman at all, but 
he realised that a man must do something in this 
world, and he would be able to send forth many novels 
and plays from the peaceful seclusion of the study 
at Tresham Rectory. Looking round among the par- 
sons he knew, he observed that they had a fairly 
good time of it in this world, whilst practically making 
certain of the next. They had to put in a good deal 
of time, of course, in preaching, praying, and visiting, 
but they always seemed able to make up a set at ten- 
nis, some of them rode to hounds, and all of them had 
their little jaunts to London, and their little holidays 
by the sea or on the continent. 

And then there was Sylvia. That he should marry 
Sylvia appeared, as she herself had put it, as natural 


MERRY-ANDREW 


35 


as eating his breakfast. He was not precisely en- 
gaged to her, but that had always seemed an unneces- 
sary formality because everybody knew that they 
would eventually be married. They knew the same 
people, they had been brought up in the same way, they 
liked the same things, and they thought the same 
thoughts. Sylvia was exactly the right height for a 
wife, she danced really well, played tennis well, played 
the piano fairly well, and sang a little. She was 
thoroughly healthy, wore just the right kind of 
clothes, and everybody liked her. The wedding would 
be quite a big affair, and they would have enough 
presents to furnish Tresham Rectory from the cellar 
to the attics. 

Obviously, therefore, there was nothing whatever 
to do whilst he was waiting for his viva but idle away 
the happy days on the tennis-court, on the cricket- 
ground, and in the car. Some fellows believed in read- 
ing up for a viva , but it is hardly necessary to say that 
Andrew saw the folly of that. If you were ploughed, 
you were ploughed ; no examiner would ever give you 
a real chance in your viva. It was purely a formal 
matter — a sort of homage that candidates had to pay 
to the examiners, as representatives of the University, 
before taking a degree. So Andrew revelled in the 
sunshine, made a hundred runs for the village team, 
got very sunburnt, and waited for the final ordeal. 
Even when it was over, there would be another period 
of waiting before the results were published. 

It will be our duty, in the course of this narrative, 
to show Andrew Dick in various lights that the reader 
may consider pardonable or unpardonable according 
to outlook and temperament. We have so far shown 


36 


MERRY-ANDREW 


him as a fairly idle young man with a tolerably good 
opinion of himself. The recital of the following epi- 
sode may lower him in the opinion of many whose 
esteem and even admiration he would wish to retain. 

Andrew’s college was not one of the largest in 
Oxford, but it could boast of possessing the most 
beautiful gardens of any. Originally a monastery, 
the lawns had been in process of careful cultivation 
for about five hundred years, and were now nearing 
perfection. There were also many beautiful trees 
in the garden, which was bounded on two sides by 
the college buildings, and at the far end by a lake. 
A small creek separated the private garden of the 
Head from the college gardens proper. The latter 
were open to the members of the college during the 
summer until nine o’clock, but at that hour a porter 
closed and locked an iron gate set in a stone arch, 
which was supposed, by the college authorities, to 
render the gardens immune from the visits of the 
junior members of the college until the porter un- 
locked the iron gate in the morning. 

As a matter of fact — and we have the less hesita- 
tion in giving away this valuable secret because the 
authorities discovered it for themselves shortly after 
the time of which we are writing — it was possible 
to enter the gardens at night from a certain upper 
window. At the moment of our story, the set of 
rooms in which this useful window was situated were 
occupied by a rather straight-laced young man named 
Frankland, and it was a source of much distress to 
Frankland that he could never be sure when his win- 
dow would be required by a party of young gentlemen 
who desired to take a bath in the lake by moonlight, 


MERRY-ANDREW 


37 


or, worse still, by some daring spirit who, having lost 
the last train from London, had come down from 
town on a goods train. 

When Andrew went up for his viva voce examina- 
tion, there were only three of the junior members 
in residence at the college. One was Frankland, who, 
having acquitted himself with considerable splendour 
in the final Honour Mathematical School, was about 
to take his degree. The second was a young person of 
the name of Jelly, whose quarters were on the far 
side of the college, and who had merely come up for 
a few days to do some packing. And the third was 
Andrew himself, his rooms adjoining those of the 
pious Frankland, temporary owner of the much-prized 
window. 

After lunch, Andrew, feeling rather melancholy 
amid those echoing staircases and empty quadrangles, 
strolled into the gardens and seated himself on a 
bench beneath a weeping willow. For some minutes 
he thought he had the gardens to himself, but pres- 
ently he became aware — by what process need not 
concern us — that somebody was pacing to and fro 
on the shaded gravel path which ran along the far 
side of the gardens. Through the trees Andrew 
caught sight of a white skirt, and a convenient open- 
ing in the foliage presently discovered to him a girl 
of about sixteen or seventeen years of age. She had 
fair hair falling to her waist, a large and quite be- 
coming shady hat, a white dress, white stockings, and 
white shoes. She was apparently quite unaware of 
Andrew’s presence in the gardens, and was pacing 
steadily to and fro, deep in some work of fiction bound 
in paper covers. 


MERRY-ANDREW 


Andrew recognised the girl at once. Indeed, she 
was well known to the whole college, who had given 
her the name of Fanny the Flapper. Fanny, who had 
a sort of ex officio position in the college — to be exact, 
her mother was the Head’s cook — had a habit of leav- 
ing the college by way of the large quadrangle when 
the men were assembled in the cloister for Hall, and, 
as she had to run the gauntlet of the whole crowd 
in order to pass through the main entrance, it would 
have been surprising indeed if she had contrived to 
escape notice. In term-time it was not the thing 
for Fanny to walk in the gardens, but, this being out 
of term, most rules were relaxed. 

Andrew, in common with the majority of youths of 
his age, held it to be an essential sign of manhood to 
make love, in an awkward, innocent, desultory sort of 
way, to every pretty girl that crossed his path. His 
adventures, up to the present, had not been particu- 
larly thrilling, though he could hug himself with pride 
at the recollection of a stray kiss or two hastily im- 
planted on the cheeks, or noses, or foreheads of va- 
rious comely maidens in the neighbourhood of his 
father’s house. 

Here, however, was the promise of a more daring 
affair. He had never even succeeded in catching the 
eye of the fair Fanny, much less in speaking to her, 
but he had gathered, from various nods and winks and 
smiling reticences on the part of bolder spirits, that 
she was not wholly averse from any admiration that 
might be going. Moreover, the very rigid rules with 
regard to the relations of the sexes obtaining at the 
University lent considerable spice to the possibility 


MERRY-ANDREW 


39 


of stealing a kiss from the daughter of the Head’s own 
cook. 

Having taken a careful and guarded look to make 
sure that there was not a third person in the gardens, 
Andrew rose and made a carefully careless detour 
which brought him at last to the very path where he 
should not have been. The reader had her back to 
him at the moment, but she turned at the end of the 
path, and, still intent upon her inexpensive story, 
came towards him. Hearing his steps,* she glanced 
up, caught Andrew’s eye, looked down at her book 
again with a slight smile, and passed on. Having 
reached the further end of the path, instead of seek- 
ing shelter beneath the maternal wing, Miss Fanny 
again turned, and again met the strolling Andrew. 
This time, in reply to another smiling glance, he choked 
back his tremors and said, “Good afternoon.” Fanny, 
without replying, walked on. Andrew, being nicely 
concealed from the college buildings by a friendly 
tree, thought it as well to examine the system on 
which the leaves were put together until Fanny again 
returned. When at last she approached, very deep 
indeed in her story, he said by way of variation : 

“A lovely afternoon, isn’t it?” 

“Glad you think so,” replied Fanny, lingering a 
little. 

“Don’t you think so ?” asked Andrew, speaking very 
quickly in case, like the ghost in Hamlet, she should 
be off before he could stop her. 

“What I think is my business,” said Fanny, coming 
to a dead stop. 

“I should like to make it my business,” returned 
Andrew, brilliantly. 


MERRY-ANDREW 


40 


“Dessay you would.” 

“Well, then, may I?” 

“Sauce-box !” After a little pause she added, 
“What are you doing up at this time of the year?” 

“I’m only up for one night.” 

“Examination or something?” 

“Yes, I’ve got a viva to-morrow morning.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Well, it means that you have to go in front of the 
examiners, and they ask you any questions they like.” 

“Oo, pore thing,” said Fanny. 

“Don’t you pity me?” 

“I don’t expect you want much pity. Most of you 
’Varsity chaps can take care of yerselves all right.” 

“What do you know about ’Varsity men?” 

“That’s telling, isn’t it?” 

“I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen me before, have 
you?” 

“I dessay — same as you see a fly in a swarm.” 

“That isn’t very complimentary.” 

“You’ve come to the wrong box for compliments. I 
expect you’ve had your fair share of them.” 

“I expect you have, too.” 

“Me ? What should anyone want to pay me a com- 
pliment for?” 

“Because you’re so pretty,” said Andrew, with ex- 
treme boldness. 

“Oh, pursue me!” 

“You know very well you’re pretty. Don’t you?” 

“Might pass in a crowd.” 

“You mustn’t be too modest.” 

“Me modest? My word, I should like some of the 
girls to hear that !” 


MERRY-ANDREW 


41 


“What girls ?” 

“What girls! Hark at Mister Innercent! Anyone 
would think you’d never seen any girls in Oxford.” 

“I’ve never seen any as nice as you.” 

“Oh, yes, I’ve heard all that before. You’re just 
like all the rest. You tell them all that, I know.” 

“Oh, no, I don’t. I’ve never spoken to any other 
girl in Oxford except you. I mean,” he added, with 
a little twinge of conscience as he remembered the 
scene on the Char, “no Oxford girl.” 

“Well, you haven’t missed much, take my word. 
They’re a lot of rotters, the Oxford girls. I wish we 
didn’t have to live here.” 

“Where would you like to live?” asked Andrew, 
getting half a pace nearer to her. 

“You keep yer distance!” observed Fanny, draw- 
ing back. “Suppose anyone was to come round the 
corner and see us talking! You’d get into a nice old 
pickle, and so should I.” 

“Well, couldn’t we talk when there’s nobody about?” 

“When d’yer mean?” 

“Why, this evening.” 

“My mother don’t let me out evenings.” 

“But you could get into these gardens from the 
Head’s garden, couldn’t you?” 

“Yes, / could, but what price you?” 

“Oh,” said Andrew, feeling delightfully wicked, 
“you leave that to me. I know a way. Will you 
come ?” 

“What time?” asked Fanny, looking down coquet- 
tishly at her book. 

“About nine o’clock, after the gardens are closed ?” 

“I don’t know. All depends.” 


42 


MERRY-ANDREW 


“Depends on what?” 

“On mother. All depends what she’s doing. She’d 
half knock my head off if she knew I was meeting 
one of you chaps in the gardens after nine.” 

“Do try!” 

“I shan’t promise, mind.” 

“But you will try, won’t you?” 

“I might. So long.” 

She moved away, again intent upon her book. An- 
drew, excited by the adventure, and very proud of 
himself, went off to kill time by looking at the papers 
at the Union. In the smoking-room at the Union he 
had the luck to run across the pious Frankland, and 
at once led up to the loan of Frankland’s window. 
Frankland, after three years’ experience of that win- 
dow, had become fairly hardened to the wickedness 
of his fellows, but now he showed a certain amount 
of obstinacy. He pointed out that there were only 
three men in residence, and, in the event of Andrew 
being caught with Fanny in the gardens, he himself 
mighli be implicated for having connived at this 
breach of rules. At length, however, Andrew man- 
aged to talk him over, and it was agreed that Frank- 
land should leave the window open, but take no other 
share in the escapade. In the event of trouble, his 
defence would be that he was not in his rooms when 
Andrew left for the appointment, and that he was 
fast asleep when Andrew returned. 

Andrew allowed the porter ten minutes’ grace. Then 
he lowered himself from Frankland’s window on to a 
small, sloping roof some five feet below it ; from this 
roof he lowered himself again on to the sill of a 


MERRY-ANDREW 


43 

ground-floor window; from that stage he jumped to 
the ground. Proceeding very cautiously, he presently 
espied Fanny on a seat beneath a weeping willow. 
The position was not very well chosen, for the willow 
faced the creek dividing the college gardens from the 
Head’s private garden. However, a half-gloom en- 
veloped everything, and young lovers invariably leave 
a great deal to the goddess of Chance. 

“So you’ve come,” said Andrew, seating himself 
within about a yard of Fanny. 

“Looks like it,” she replied. 

“You managed to dodge your mother?” 

“I shouldn’t be here if I hadn’t, silly.” 

“Pm very glad you did.” 

“I don’t know as I am.” 

“Why not? Don’t you like being with me?” 

“Oh, you ’Varsity chaps are all very well in yer 
way.” 

“What sort of a way’s that?” 

“You know well enough.” 

Andrew edged a few inches nearer. “No, I don’t, 
really. Won’t you tell me?” And he stole another 
three inches. 

“I reckon you do.” 

“But I swear I don’t. We’re not all alike, you 
know.” 

“Not much difference, and chance it.” 

Andrew, by this time, was quite close to her. Her 
hair brushed his cheek. He put his arm round her 
waist, and kept it there, despite some feeble resist- 
ance. 

“Give me a kiss,” he whispered. 

Fanny giggled. 


44 


MERRY-ANDREW 


“Will you?” persisted Andrew. 

“What for?” said Fanny, and giggled again, 

“Because I want one.” 

“People can't have everything they want in this 
world.” 

“But I can have this, and I’m going to.” 

“I know you're not, then.” 

“I know I am.” 

She wriggled away from him, but he caught her by 
the wrist and dragged her quite close to him. Fanny 
was still giggling, and the giggles became a suppressed 
shriek as Andrew flung both arms about her and 
pressed his lips against her cheek. 

At that very instant they were both nearly startled 
out of their wits by the sudden sound of a third 
voice, high-pitched and angry. 

“Fanny! What are you doing there? You little 
devil ! I’ll break every bone in yer body ! And I’ll go 
straight to the Head and tell him — that I will ! I don't 
care who the gentleman is! I’ll go straight to the 
Head and tell him all about it! You see if I don’t.” 

Andrew, at the first sound of the mother’s voice, 
had instantly released Fanny and darted behind a 
bush. Fanny, for her part, raised her voice and 
shouted back at her mother. 

“There isn’t anybody here! I’m all by myself! 
That’s the truth, mother ! There’s isn’t anybody here !” 

They both screamed so loudly that it seemed to 
Andrew quite likely that the Head himself, if he 
happened to be at home, would presently appear upon 
the scene. There was only one thing to be done — he 
must make an ignominious bolt for it. Leaving the 
friendly bush and the two screaming females behind 


MERRY-ANDREW 


45 

him, therefore, he ran as fast as his legs would carry 
him to the point at which he had entered the gardens, 
sprang upon the lowest window sill, from thence 
to the little sloping roof — and there he stuck. Try 
as he would, he could not quite raise himself to the 
level of Frankland’s window. 

“Frankland !” he called. “Frankland! Hallo! 
Frankland !” 

The head of Frankland appeared peeping out at him. 

“ What’s the matter?” 

“I can't get up ! You must give me a hand !” 

“Half a jiffey! I’ll hand you a chair.” 

Presently a chair was cautiously lowered, and with 
the help of this Andrew was soon in Frankland’s bed- 
room, and had drawn up the chair after him. He was 
white and breathless, as well he might be. Frankland 
stared at him in speechless terror. 

“We were caught!” gasped Andrew. 

“Caught? Who by?” 

“By her mother.” Andrew then gave Frankland 
a faithful account of the incident exactly as it had 
occurred. 

“What shall you do,” he asked Frankland, “if there 
is any enquiry about it?” 

“I shall say that I’ve been alone in my rooms all the 
evening.” 

“But that will absolutely put me in the cart! I 
know Jelly has gone to the 'Queen’s’ for dinner, and 
he won’t be in yet.” 

“I can’t help that,” said Frankland, stubbornly. “I 
can’t afford to run the risk of getting into any scrape. 
They might stop me taking my degree, and I’m going 


MERRY-ANDREW 


46 

to a tutorship the day after to-morrow. I can’t run 
the risk of losing that.” 

“But nobody wants you to run any risk. Can’t you 
say that I was with you all the time?” 

“That would be a lie,” said Frankland. “I don’t 
want to leave the ’Varsity with a lie on my con- 
science.” 

Andrew was in such a state of nerves that he hardly 
knew what he was talking about. Every moment he 
expected to receive a summons to appear before the 
Head. Every moment he expected to hear that aw- 
ful angry mother’s voice screaming from the quad. 
One course of action alone was open to him. Without 
another word to Frankland, he hurried across the pas- 
sage, shut his door, tore off his clothes and jumped 
into bed. 


CHAPTER IV 


IN WHICH EVENTS MOVE RATHER RAPIDLY 

W HEN Andrew awoke next morning, he had 
at first a vague consciousness of some 
black cloud hanging over him. This 
vagueness lasted for a few seconds only; then he re- 
membered that loud grating voice at the other side 
of the creek, and wondered what the upshot of the ad- 
venture would be. It was quite possible that the 
Cook would postpone her complaint to the Head until 
the morning, in which case he might receive a sum- 
mons to appear before the dread presence at any mo- 
ment. 

He had to be at the Schools by ten o’clock. His 
plans were soon formed. There was not the slightest 
chance of Frankland getting into the scrape — his ex- 
cellently pious character was too well-known. Jelly 
had no character to speak of, but the porter would be 
able to prove that Jelly was out of college at the time 
of the incident. If nothing happened, therefore, be- 
fore Andrew left the college to go down to the Schools, 
there was no reason why anything should happen at 
all. He would pack his bag, and leave instructions 
with the scout to send it down to the station. The 
cap and gown presented some difficulties, but he could 
easily proceed in them to the station after his viva , 
and change in the waiting-room. 

47 


48 MERRY-ANDREW 

He made a poor breakfast, and was certainly not 
in the frame of mind to do himself credit before the 
examiners. He walked across the quad with as care- 
less an air as possible, but every moment he expected 
to hear a footstep behind him, or to hear his name 
called. But he gained the street without interruption 
of any kind. 

The ordeal of the viva voce examination in an Hon- 
our School is rendered the more terrifying by the fact 
that they are not held in private. The other candi- 
dates, for example, are in the room, waiting their 
turn, and any member of the university with sufficient 
curiosity may also attend this distressing function. 
At any rate, that was the rule in Andrew’s day, but, 
fortunately for him, the audience on this particular 
occasion was limited to his fellow-candidates and one 
or two of their friends. 

One candidate was sitting at a small table in a cor- 
ner of the room busily writing. Andrew had heard 
that the examiners occasionally gave a man a little 
more paper-work, and he prayed very earnestly that 
this fate was not in store for him. He had had his 
fill of writing on subjects about which he knew noth- 
ing. 

His fears were quite groundless. When his name 
was called, a slight but dignified smile appeared on 
the faces of the three examiners sitting at the long 
table. One of them indicated a chair that faced him 
on the other side of the table, and Andrew sat down. 
A moment before he had been trembling; now he 
felt ready for whatever might befall. 

“Can you tell me,” asked the examiner, “in what 
connection Isaiah refers to the Arabians?” 


MERRY-ANDREW 49 

Andrew, of course, had not the remotest idea in 
what connection Isaiah referred to the Arabians. He 
discovered later that Isaiah does not refer to the 
Arabians at all by that name. At the actual moment, 
the one thought in his mind was that he must say 
something, and say it quickly. There came into his 
mind the name of a song. The song was entitled 
“My Arab Steed,’’ and it used to be sung by a maiden 
lady of somewhat eccentric habits who occasionally 
visited at Andrew’s home when he was a child. He 
could see the poor lady sitting at the piano, and he 
could hear a high, thin, tremulous voice weakly 
acclaiming the virtues of her Arab steed. He remem- 
bered that he used to wonder what she would look 
like on an Arab steed, and told himself that he had 
never seen anybody less likely to mount and control a 
steed of any description, least of all a full-blooded 
Arab steed. 

All these things passed through his mind in the 
second that elapsed after the examiner had put the 
question. The examiner was looking at Andrew 
rather whimsically, and Andrew was looking at him. 
The other two examiners had stopped writing and 
were also looking at Andrew with the same whim- 
sical smile. If a dustman had suddenly left his cart 
in the street and wandered into the room to be ex- 
amined they would have looked at him in much the 
same way. 

“He says,” replied Andrew, easily, “that the Ara- 
bians were noted for the excellence of their cavalry.” 

The smile on the faces of the examiners deepened 
a little. Then the one who had put the question bowed 


50 MERRY-ANDREW 

gravely and said, “Thank you, Mr. Dick. I need not 
detain you any longer.” 

So it was over. Andrew picked up his “square” 
and walked lightly and collectedly from the room. 
He thought it more than a little absurd to bring a 
man all the way up to Oxford for the sake of asking 
him one question. Still, that was part of the aca- 
demic system. The great point was that the whole 
thing was over, and he was free to return to home 
and Sylvia. The result of the examination would not 
be published for some little time. 

He found two doctors in the house when he reached 
home. His father had been taken suddenly ill with 
a more than usually severe heart attack the previous 
night, and the local doctor had sent to London for a 
specialist. For three days Andrew lived in a state 
of wretched suspense. In the middle of the third 
night he was summoned to his father’s bedside. The 
doctor and the nurse warned him that the end was 
at hand. 

Andrew went close to the bedside. Seeing that his 
father wished to speak to him, he leaned down and 
held his ear close to the feeble lips. 

“What about the exam?” asked Mr. Dick. 

“It’s all right,” replied Andrew. 

“What have they given you?” 

“A Third,” said Andrew. He would have told a 
much greater lie than that to ease the last moments 
of one to whom he was deeply attached. 

“Thank God,” said Mr. Dick, and a little later he 
passed away. 


MERRY-ANDREW 51 

It was not until after the funeral that Andrew dis- 
covered the reason for his father’s anxiety over the 
examination. The family lawyer then informed him 
that Mr. Dick’s affairs were in a very serious state 
indeed ; in point of fact, Andrew would have nothing. 

It took the boy some little time to realise what the 
lawyer was talking about. He had never given a 
serious thought in his life to the question of money. 
His father had always supplied his needs, and Andrew 
had seldom been sufficiently extravagant to raise a 
paternal protest. As he had told Mr. Stiffkey, he had 
never dreamt that he would have to work for his 
living, and now he certainly could not comprehend in 
full the meaning of what had happened to him. 

His sole remaining hope was Aunt Ursula, and 
Aunt Ursula’s favour depended on the result of the 
examination. If he were able to get his degree, that 
would lead quite naturally to his taking Holy Orders, 
and so to the very excellent living of Tresham. If, on 
the other hand, the examiners, for some obscure rea- 
son, chose to decide against him, he knew enough of 
Aunt Ursula’s nature to guess that she would wreak 
her revenge by having nothing more to do with hii 

There was nothing to do but to wait in the silent 
house, where the local auctioneer was already apprais- 
ing the various articles of furniture, and callously 
dividing the late Mr. Dick’s possessions into “Lots.” 
Sylvia was a good friend in these days. Sylvia’s 
mother, of course, took quite a complacent view of the 
whole situation. 

“You must always remember,” she said to Andrew, 
“that your father was a great sufferer. I am quite 
sure that everything has happened for the best. The 


52 


MERRY-ANDREW 


night is darkest before dawn. Every cloud has a 
silver lining. Troubles are often blessings in disguise. 
It’s a long lane that has no turning, Andrew, and we 
must always look on the bright side. I’m afraid the 
carpets aren’t in a very good state of repair, but the 
oak sideboard in the dining-room is really a beauty, 
and is sure to fetch a good sum. If those dreadful 
dealers don’t run it up too much, I shall very likely 
buy it myself ; in fact, there are several things I should 
like to buy, and then you can have them again when 
you set up house. It’s a poor heart that never re- 
joices, and it’s no use trying to lock the stable door 
after the horse has gone. The silver must certainly 
be bought in because it has your family crest on it, 
but the piano is quite out of date, and may as well go. 
Yes, I always remind people who are in affliction that 
we never know what to-morrow may bring forth ; it’s 
a great comfort to think of things like that.” 

It was Sylvia who brought the news of the result of 
the examination. She had found the list in the Morn- 
ing Post, and at once cycled over. 

“Hallo,” said Andrew, with a somewhat forlorn 
attempt to carry out all Mrs. Kesterton’s maxims. 

“Have you seen it?” asked Sylvia. 

“Seen what?” 

“The result of your examination?” 

Andrew suddenly felt that curious detachment which 
would seem to be one of Nature’s provisions in crises. 
“No,” he said; “is it out?” 

“Haven’t you seen your paper this morning?” 

“Yes, but I didn’t notice anything.” 

“The list is in the Morning Post.” 


MERRY-ANDREW 


53 


“Well?” 

“You haven’t got your Third,” said Sylvia. 

“What have I got?” 

“You haven’t got a Fourth, either.” 

“What is it? A Gulf?” 

“I’m awfully sorry, old chap, but it isn’t even a 
Gulf.” 

Andrew laughed. “Just a measly Group?” 

“Of course it may be a mistake, but they haven’t 
even given you a Group.” 

“Nothing whatever?” 

“Your name isn’t in the list at all. Here you are. 
I cut it out.” She handed him a little slip of paper, 
and Andrew read it through. Then he twisted it into 
a pellet and flung it away. “Thank God, that’s all 
done with,” he said. 

“It’s awfully sporting of you to take it like this.” 

“I mean it. I was being forced to do a frightfully 
shabby thing. If I’d taken my degree I should have 
had to go in for all that parson business, and accept 
Aunt Ursula’s rotten old living. I should have hated 
myself as a humbug, and a liar, and a hypocrite. 
Every time I put on my surplice I should have loathed 
myself more and more, and that would have a pretty 
bad effect on a chap, I should think. Now I’ve done 
with all that. I’ve got absolutely nothing in the world 
but my brains, and it’s up to me to win through. I 
shall do it, you know.” 

Sylvia turned away. There were tears in her eyes, 
and she did not want Andrew to see them. And 
there was something else in her eyes — something that 
had never been there before. She knew now that she 
was in love with Andrew — in love with him because 


54 


MERRY-ANDREW 


he was all alone in the world and needed love so badly. 
She admired him for his courage; every word that 
he had uttered vibrated in her heart. But it was not 
his courage or his translucent honesty that had sud- 
denly made her fall in love with him; it was just his 
absolute loneliness. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked, stepping up to her 
and laying his hands on her shoulders. “You’re not 
crying, are you?” 

“No,” said Sylvia. 

“Yes, you are.” He turned her round and tried to 
look into her eyes, but she would not let him. “What 
are you crying for ? Can’t you see how splendid it all 
is? I can do as I like, now. I am my own master, 
and nobody can interfere with me.” 

“What will you do?” 

“Do? Write, of course.” 

“But isn’t that awfully precarious?” 

“That’s just the fun of it. If I had become the 
Rector of Tresham, I should have had my four meals 
a day with the utmost precision and regularity, and 
never had the adventure of earning one of them. 
Now I’ve got to earn every single meal I have, and 
I’ve got to earn it before I have it, and I mean to do 
it! I know what I can do. I know I can make my 
living as a journalist. I’ve been paid for things, and 
that shows that I can write things worth paying for. 
If I can write one I can write fifty or a hundred. I 
shall go up to London and get one very cheap room, 
and I shall call on every editor in town. I may never 
become rich or famous, but I’m absolutely certain 
to make quite a decent income, and then I shall join 
a club, and go to all the theatres and have a splendid 


MERRY-ANDREW 


55 

time. I might even write a play. D’you realise that 
it’s possible to make a fortune out of one play? I saw 
in a paper that the chap who wrote ‘Charley’s Aunt’ 
had made sixty thousand pounds out of it! I could 
write just as good a farce as ‘Charley’s Aunt.’ ” 

The tears were coming again to Sylvia’s eyes, but 
this time she was ashamed of them because they were 
for herself, not for him. There was no place for her 
in this catalogue of splendours. Andrew could go 
away into the world and fight the world, but she must 
stay behind in this dull village and content herself 
with his letters. Perhaps he would forget all about 
her. At first he would remember, and his letters would 
be fairly frequent, but London was full of brilliantly 
clever and wonderfully beautiful girls, and he would 
be sure to meet some of them, and almost sure to fall 
in love with one of them. She felt that he had it in 
him to succeed, but it was rather hard, after all, that 
he should succeed away from her, without her help. 

He must have seen from her face what was passing 
in her mind. A sudden thought seemed to strike him, 
and he seized both her hands. 

“I say,” he exclaimed, “wouldn’t it be topping if we 
could go up to town together?” 

“Don’t be silly,” said Sylvia, with rather a wan little 
smile. 

“But it would ! It would be tremendous fun to keep 
house and cook our own dinner! Let’s risk it, shall 
we?” 

Sylvia shook her head. “I don’t want to depress 
you, old boy, but it would be madness for you to try 
to keep two people when you can’t be sure of being 


56 


MERRY-ANDREW 


able to keep one. I should only be in your way. Be- 
sides ” 

“Well?” 

“You won’t be huffy, will you?” 

“Of course not. What were you going to say?” 

“I was going to say that mother would feel bound 
to make me an allowance, and I don’t think that would 
be very nice for you, would it?” 

“I never thought of that,” said Andrew. “No, that 
would be rotten. I want to do it all myself. Well, 
we’ll see what happens. As soon as all the business 
here is settled up, I shall go up to town and get to 
work. How much do you think I ought to be making 
before we can get married?” 

“I don’t quite know, but I feel it would be as well 
to put the whole idea out of your head for the 
present.” 

“I haven’t the slightest intention of doing anything 
of the sort. You’re not going to chuck me, are you?” 

“Andrew !” 

“Very well, then. We can get married perfectly 
well on five hundred a year. As soon as I can prove 
to you that I am making money at the rate of five 
hundred a year, I shall come back and expect you to 
marry me.” 

“No,” said Sylvia. “You really must be more prac- 
tical. Just because you made five hundred in one year 
it wouldn’t follow that you could make five hundred 
the next year. You ought to give yourself at least 
two years before you think of getting married, and 
you ought to have a good sum of money in the bank 
in case you got ill or anything.” 

“Two years?” cried Andrew. “But two years is a 


MERRY-ANDREW 


57 


tremendous time ! I expect somebody else would have 
come along and snapped you up by that time.” 

“I’m not so easily snapped up. All the same, I 
won't be engaged to you.” 

“In case you meet somebody you like better?” 

“No, in case you meet somebody you like better.” 

“That's absolutely out of the question.” 

“Is it?” Sylvia laughed. 

“Absolutely. But I'll tell you what we ought to 
do; we ought to make a compact. If I meet anybody 
I like better, I'll write and tell you so, and you must 
promise to do the same.” 

“Yes, I'll promise that.” And so they left it. 

By the first post next morning came the expected 
letter from Aunt Ursula. 

“My dear Andrew,” she wrote, “I have just read 
the result of your examination in the Times . I need 
not tell you how bitterly disappointed I am in you. It 
may be news to you that I assisted your father very 
considerably with your college expenses, and I did this 
because I felt that you might one day become a worthy 
and useful worker in the Church of England. But 
now, owing to your laziness and self-indulgence, that 
hope has been shattered, and all the money has been 
thrown away. I do not wish to write more harshly 
than I can help when you are still suffering from 
your recent bereavement, but I feel it my duty to point 
out to you that you are one of life’s failures. I fear 
that you will never do any good in the world, and you 
must not expect me to waste any more money upon 
you. There are others who need it as much and 
deserve it more. I am, Your affectionate Aunt, 
Ursula.” 


CHAPTER V 


ANDREW MEETS THREE EDITORS AND RECEIVES THREE 
SHOCKS 

W HEN the house and furniture had been sold, 
and all his father’s creditors disposed of, 
Andrew found himself in possession of 
fifteen pounds, a very fair supply of decent clothes 
(obtained at Oxford, and, of course, unpaid for), a 
few books, a tennis racquet, a bat, and a bicycle. He 
sold the bicycle on his own account to a local dealer, 
and thus brought his capital to nineteen pounds. The 
bat and the tennis racquet he left in Sylvia’s keeping ; 
his clothes he packed into a couple of suit cases, and 
forthwith plunged into the whirlpool called London. 

From force of habit he drove from the railway- 
station to a large hotel in the neighbourhood of Char- 
ing Cross. Never having enquired the price of a room 
in his life before taking it, he was shown into a splen- 
did apartment with a fine view of the Thames, the 
Embankment, and St. Paul’s Cathedral. Ten min- 
utes later he went down in the lift to the writing-room, 
wrote letters to the editors of three penny weekly 
papers which had severally accepted three of his arti- 
cles, and sent them off at once by District Messenger. 
In the letters he reminded the editors that he had con- 
tributed to their papers, made known to them the very 
important fact that he had now come to London to 
58 


MERRY-ANDREW 59 

place the whole of his time at their disposal, and asked 
for an interview. 

He then put on his hat, walked along the Embank- 
ment as far as Arundel Street, turned up into the 
Strand, and walked through Fleet Street to Ludgate 
Circus. Andrew felt very proud to think that, by 
merely taking the train to London and engaging a 
room at an hotel, he had become at one bound a Lon- 
don journalist. He had a vague idea that he ought 
to be a little bit dissipated in order to adapt himself 
for the great part he was to play in the affairs of the 
world, and so he thrust open the door of a public- 
house, somewhat roughly, and found himself in the 
midst of a number of unshaven, rather shabby, and 
rather dirty-looking men. He realised that these could 
not possibly be journalists, but would not withdraw 
from the adventure. With a vivid blush spreading 
over his quite clear and admirably healthy young face, 
he politely asked a young lady with unnatural hair and 
complexion for a whisky and soda. 

“Scotch or Irish?” she asked, yawning a little. 

“Scotch, please.” 

As he had failed to name his particular brand, she 
gave him some vile stuff known as “our special,” 
dashed some cheap, lukewarm soda into it, pushed it 
across the sloppy counter and said, “Tenpence, please.” 

One or two of the unshaven men winked at each 
other, but Andrew did not see that. He paid over his 
tenpence, swallowed the filthy mixture, lighted a cig- 
arette, and stalked out into the street again as though 
he were accustomed to spend the greater part of his 
day pushing in and out of public houses. He stopped 
in front of several windows which displayed copies 


MERRY-ANDREW 


60 

of the journal for the day, and read a few lines, try- 
ing to look as careless and as bored as might be. Then 
he walked back through the Strand to his hotel, wrote 
a long letter to Sylvia, dressed, dined, and went to 
the Empire. 

He had been to the Empire once before — on 
Boatrace Night. On that occasion he had achieved 
the glorious distinction of being pushed down the 
steps into the street by a huge attendant — an achieve- 
ment which had covered him with no little glory on 
his return to Oxford. He now found the promenade 
very dull by comparison, and wished he had gone to 
see a play instead. But he comforted himself with 
the reflection that he was behaving very much like a 
man of the world, and stayed until almost the last turn. 
Then he went back to his hotel and his luxurious 
apartment. 

The first post in the morning brought him replies 
from the three editors. Whether they had been im- 
pressed by the name of the hotel that headed the note- 
paper, or whether they were captivatd by Andrew’s 
impudence in writing to them at all, or whether they 
remembered his contribution to their columns, the 
important point is that they all expressed themselves 
as being willing to grant him an interview. 

The first letter he opened was from Mr. Socrates 
Quain, the Editor of “Rosemary,” a miscellany of 
fiction, useful hints, and good advice cleverly calcu- 
lated to appeal to a very large number of young 
women. Mr. Quain would see Mr. Dick at eleven 
o’clock. 

The second was from Mr. James Keep, Editor of 
that famous journal for the home, “Golden Glints.” 


MERRY-ANDREW 


61 


Mr. Keep would see Mr. Andrew Dick at three o’clock. 

The third was from Mr. Douglas Campbell, Editor 
of that other famous journal for the home, “Doy’s 
Weekly.” Mr. Campbell would see Mr. Dick between 
four and five. 

As he opened one letter after the other, Andrew 
felt that the world was his. That very day he was to 
meet and converse with three men who could, and 
doubtless would, set him without delay on the high- 
road to success. The mere fact that the appointments 
did not clash was a good omen. It was clever of 
him, he reflected, not to have aimed too high at first. 
The time would come, of course, when he would be 
making appointments with the Editors of the great 
dailies; but first of all he must gain his experience. 
He had not contributed as yet to the great dailies, 
but he had contributed to, and been paid by, “Rose- 
mary,” “Golden Glints,” and “Doy’s Weekly.” 

Having always heard of the value of first impres- 
sions, he went down to the barber’s shop in the base- 
ment of the hotel, and had his hair cut and very 
carefully brushed. Then he went out and bought him- 
self a new hat, a new pair of gloves, and a smart 
cane. The three magic letters were in his pocket; it 
was utterly inconceivable that he should not come to 
terms with one of these three potentates. It would 
be rather awkward, perhaps, if they all offered him 
positions; still, as reasonable men, they would under- 
stand that he could not very well cut himself into 
three parts. He would soften the shock of disappoint- 
ment as far as possible, and rely upon their breadth 
of mind not to bear him any ill-will. 

Mr. Socrates Quain was quite unlike Andrew’s con- 


62 


MERRY-ANDREW 


ception of an Editor. He was rather short, rather 
stout, and spoke as little as possible. When he did 
say anything, he said it with the utmost deliberation, 
rather as though he expected that it would be taken 
down and used in evidence against him. 

“Good morning,” said Andrew, briskly and breezily. 

Mr. Socrates Quain did not answer, but merely 
looked at Andrew without the slightest expression on 
his plump, clean-shaven face. 

“You very kindly said that I might call upon you,” 
Andrew reminded him. 

Mr. Socrates Quain gently nodded. 

“I have come to London to take up journalism,” 
continued Andrew. “I have done a good deal of writ- 
ing, one way and another. You will perhaps remem- 
ber that you accepted an article of mine on 'Girls at 
the University.’ ” 

Mr. Socrates Quain parted his lips a little, but other- 
wise made no response. 

“I should like to obtain a post as sub-editor, or 
something of that sort,” explained Andrew, feeling, 
for the first time, that the career he had chosen was 
not going to be so easy as he had imagined. 

Mr. Socrates Quain at last spoke — very slowly, very 
thoughtfully. Every syllable had its own value. 

“We don’t care for University men in this office.” 

Andrew was startled. He could not remember 
whether he had told Mr. Quain in his letter from the 
hotel that he had been to Oxford, but he had certainly 
expected that the fact of his having been there would 
help him considerably in getting what he wanted. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

“We don’t care for University men in this office,” 


MERRY-ANDREW 63 

repeated Mr. Quain. He pronounced this judgment 
a second time at precisely the same pace, and in pre- 
cisely the same manner. There was no hesitation or 
budging about him. What he had said he had said. 
Had he not been very sure of the truth of it, he 
would not have said it. 

“Might I ask why?” replied Andrew, a whole series 
of misgivings beginning to surge through him, and 
take the youthful assurance out of him. 

There was a long silence, and then Mr. Socrates 
Quain gave forth this astounding piece of informa- 
tion. 

“We don’t want young men who write. We want 
young men who can sweep out the office and do up 
parcels.” 

“All right!” exclaimed Andrew. “I’m quite ready 
to sweep out the office and do up parcels.” 

“Have you ever done any sweeping?” 

“No, but I could soon learn.” 

“No, you couldn’t. You can’t learn to sweep after 
you’ve learnt Greek and Latin. And you can’t learn 
to do up parcels after you’ve learnt Euclid and Alge- 
bra. We want young men who have never learnt any- 
thing except sweeping and doing up parcels.” 

Unseen by Andrew, he pressed an electric button 
beneath his desk. The door opened, and an office-boy 
appeared who handed Andrew his hat. 

Staggered, puzzled, and very much ashamed, An- 
drew took the new hat, the new gloves, and the new 
cane, and stumbled, blushing, down the stairs and out 
into the street. 

What on earth did the man mean? Of course, Mr. 
Quain didn’t expect to be taken literally ; but, after all. 


64 


MERRY-ANDREW 


a paper had to be written, and the stories and articles 
had to be read, and sub-edited, and titled. If he had 
meant that University men were above their business, 
it was hardly fair to lump them all together in that 
way. For his part, Andrew was quite prepared to 
sweep the floor, or to do up parcels, or anything else 
that would get him a footing in an office. Well, there 
were still Mr. James Keep and Mr. Douglas 
Campbell. 

Mr. Keep was that curious anomaly, a serious Irish- 
man. Andrew was not quite so ignorant as to imagine 
that all Irishmen continually waved sticks in the air 
and danced jigs, but he was certainly not prepared for 
a man with a soft Irish accent and the demeanour 
of a judge sentencing a man to be hanged. He had 
taken the precaution to leave the new hat, and the 
new gloves, and the new stick behind him; he felt 
that he had made a mistake in introducing these tokens 
of a lighter and a gayer world to the somewhat oppres- 
sive atmosphere of Fleet Street. Mr. Keep, at any 
rate, should never suspect that he was an Oxford 
man. 

He was gaining experience, and gaining it very 
quickly. 

“Pray sit down,” said Mr. Keep. “You wish to 
become a journalist, Mr. Dick?” 

“I am very anxious to take up regular journalism,” 
said Andrew. “I have already done a good deal of 
writing, including an article for your own paper.” 

“What was the subject of that article?” asked Mr. 
Keep. 

“It was called, ‘Dons on Wheels/ It was a sort of 


MERRY-ANDREW 


65 

semi-humorous article on the popularity of the bicycle 
at Oxford.” 

“The profession of journalism,” said Mr. Keep, “is 
a very serious one, Mr. Dick. It is not to be entered 
upon by any young man who has the facility for string- 
ing sentences together. It requires great patience, 
great diligence, a great faculty for observing the 
public, a keen appreciation of the tastes of the public, 
and an almost supernatural appetite for the topic of 
the moment. I doubt very much, Mr. Dick, whether 
you possess all these qualities. Unfortunately, my 
experience of you young gentlemen from Oxford and 
Cambridge has not been particularly happy. You all 
want to educate the public ; the aim of my paper is to 
interest them, and to amuse them. You want to 
express your wonderful ideas, to clothe your thoughts 
in high-flown language, to emulate the great writers 
in whose works you have been steeping yourselves for 
the past seven years or so. That is not what we want 
in this office, Mr. Dick.” 

“I’m quite willing to write anything that you wish,” 
said poor Andrew, feeling as though he had now 
plumbed the depths of self-humiliation, and would 
never again be able to look Sylvia in the face. 

“I have no doubt you are,” replied Mr. Keep, “but 
that’s no good to me, Mr. Dick. I have no time to 
feed young men with ideas; I expect them to bring 
ideas to me. I have no time to tell you what to write ; 
a journalist should know what the Editor wants, and 
be ready to supply him with it at half-an-hour’s no- 
tice. I am very sorry that you should be disappointed, 
but I fear that you have been trained in the wrong 
school. Of course I shall be happy to read any 


66 MERRY-ANDREW 

article that you may care to submit to me. Good 
afternoon.” 

Two arrows had now been shot; both had failed 
utterly to hit the target ; one remained in his 
quiver. Andrew hurried back to the hotel, put on his 
oldest suit and a cap, and left behind him even the 
rather worn pair of gloves that had accompanied him 
to the offices of “Golden Glints.” He thought the 
waiters and hall-porter looked rather surprised and 
shocked as he hurried past them in this shabby attire, 
but the great prize was still dangling before his eyes, 
and he would have gone to any length to be able to 
grasp it. His ideas had changed since the morning. 
He no longer dreamed of a room of his own, and a 
sub-editorial chair, and a pile of manuscripts upon 
which to pass judgment; he was now prepared to 
accept anything, to do anything, rather than confess 
himself beaten. 

Besides, what else could he do ? There was nobody 
in the world to whom he could turn for assistance. 
His aunt Ursula had given him to understand, in the 
most definite manner, that there was nothing to be 
expected from her; in any case, he would rather 
have starved than ask anything from her after her 
letter. There was Sylvia, of course, and Sylvia's 
mother; but how could he possibly humble himself 
by confessing to two women, one of whom he hoped 
to make his wife, that his brains were worth nothing 
in the market of London? 

Mr. Douglas Campbell was a much older man than 
either Mr. Quain or Mr. Keep. He kept Andrew wait- 
ing quite half-an-hour in a very small and very gloomy 
waiting-room; indeed, he might have forgotten him 


MERRY-ANDREW 


67 


altogether had not Andrew slipped a sixpence into 
the hand of an office-boy, and asked him to remind 
Mr. Campbell of the existence of his visitor. 

Mr. Campbell adopted the paternal attitude. After 
listening to Andrew’s introductory remarks — Andrew 
seemed to himself to have been repeating the same 
sentences all day long — Mr. Campbell delivered him- 
self as follows : 

“Now, Mr. Dick, let me give you one piece of ad- 
vice. You say that you want to be a journalist, and 
that you have written an article for this paper, and 
that I have printed it and paid you for it. Don’t be 
led away by that solitary instance to imagine that 
you were born to be a journalist. I have been a jour- 
nalist myself for five-and-thirty years, and I can 
assure you that if I had my time over again I would 
take up any other profession rather than the profes- 
sion of journalism. The prizes are very few, and the 
number of those who go under is very great. I can 
give you scores of instances out of my own experience, 
but I will spare you that. What I say to you is this 
— go back to your friends, and tell them that you have 
changed your mind — tell them anything you like — and 
ask them to help you to enter the profession for which 
you were educated. Men of your stamp are as plen- 
tiful in Fleet Street as pebbles on the seashore ; they 
begin by meaning well, but they haven’t got the right 
sort of stuff in them to make a success in Fleet Street. 
They may be clever, they may be able to write, they 
may even be hard-working; but these things are not 
everything. If you had come to me when you were 
fifteen or sixteen years of age, I might have made 
something of you. Instead of that, you have come 


68 


MERRY-ANDREW 


to me after wasting some of the best years of your 
youth at a place like Oxford — it may be Cambridge, 
but I can see it’s either one or the other — and then 
you expect me to teach you things that that office-boy 
who brought in your card knows backwards. I 
haven’t got the time for it, and that’s the whole truth 
of the matter. Send me as many articles as you like, 
and I will undertake to read them, but don’t expect 
me to give you a job in the office, because I can’t 
do it, and I shouldn’t be consulting the interests of 
my directors if I did. Good afternoon.” 


CHAPTER VI 


IN WHICH A LITTLE LAMB, HAVING STRAYED INTO A 
DEN OF WOLVES, IS DELIGHTED WITH 
HIS NEW FRIENDS 

T HAT night, Andrew wrote as follows to Sylvia : 

“You will be pleased to hear that I am get- 
ting on extremely well. To-day, for instance, 
I have made the acquaintance of no less than three 
Editors — real live Editors, all of whom 'expressed 
their willingness’ to consider any work that I cared' 
to submit. You must own that I have not let very 
much grass grow under my feet. Of course I shall 
bombard them with articles, and I have very little 
doubt that an editorial appointment will follow. 

“I think it might be as well to look out for a rather 
less expensive residence than this one. I don’t know 
yet what they are charging me here, but I should 
think it would be more economical to take a room 
somewhere, so don’t be surprised if there is a dif- 
ferent address on my next letter. 

“I have made a most interesting discovery. It seems 
that London Editors are not at all impressed by the 
fact that one has been to Oxford or Cambridge; in 
fact, to put it plainly, they have discovered that 
’Varsity men, as a rule, are no good. I did my best 
to conceal the fact that I had been to Oxford when I 
was talking to Douglas Campbell, the Editor of ‘Doy’s 


70 


MERRY-ANDREW 


Weekly,’ but he must be a shrewd old chap because 
he found it out for himself. Do you really think 
there is such a thing as an Oxford manner ? It seems 
impossible, but if there is, and Eve got it, the sooner 
I get rid of it the better. 

“London is frightfully fascinating, and I look for- 
ward tremendously to the day when you and I will have 
a jolly little flat somewhere, and I shall be the Editor 
of a well-known paper. I am just as confident as 
ever that that day will come. I had a good look at 
some of the chaps who are employed in those offices, 
and most of them seemed very ordinary individuals. 
They all had their coats off, but that doesn’t necessarily 
mean that they were working frightfully hard. I 
should work frightfully hard if I got my chance. 
Editors here seem to think that Oxford men are 
afraid of work, but I’m not a bit afraid of the right 
sort of work — the work I know that I can do. 

“Now I must knock off and write an article. I 
think of you all the time, and am always picturing 
you in the village and on the lawn at your house. Let 
me have a very long letter by return, but don’t tell me 
anything about our old place, or the bounders who 
have bought it. 

“All my love.” 

Andrew wrote an article that night, and sent it to 
Mr. James Keep together with a stamped addressed 
envelope in case it should not happen to suit Mr. 
Keep. The next morning he gave up his room at 
the hotel, and asked for his bill. The amount rather 
startled him. When he had paid the bill he found 
himself in possession of thirteen pounds, instead of 
nineteen. He had been living at the rate of three 


MERRY-ANDREW 71 

pounds a day, including his new hat, his new stick, his 
new gloves, and his seat at the Empire. Obviously, 
this would not do. Fresh quarters, and economical 
ones at that, must be found without delay. 

Leaving his luggage at the hotel for the time being, 
he walked under Hungerford Bridge, up Villiers 
Street, and turned off into John Street. A rather nice 
flat on Adelphi Terrace took his fancy, and he en- 
quired the probable rent of a man who was painting 
some railings near by. 

“Them ’ahses ?” replied the painter. “I reckon they 
run as near four ’undred a year as dammit.” 

“Thank you,” said Andrew, and walked on. 

Presently he found himself in Buckingham Street, 
and noticed a card in a window signifying that there 
were furnished apartments to be let within. He rang 
the bell, and was told to wait in the passage whilst 
the servant fetched Mrs. Doubikin. Whilst he was 
waiting, a huge man came out of a room on the 
ground floor with three or four telegrams in his hand. 
He opened the telegrams in a casual manner, in each 
case staring hard at Andrew as he ripped up the flaps. 
In each case, also, he threw the envelopes on the floor. 
Andrew noticed that the floor was strewn with yellow 
envelopes. He had never seen so many telegraph-en- 
velopes in his life. Having glanced carelessly at the 
wires, the huge man laboriously climbed the stairs, 
entered a room on the first floor, and slammed the 
door behind him. 

Mrs. Doubikin came slowly and pantingly up the 
kitchen stairs. She was a very stout woman, very 
short of breath, with a pleasant, motherly manner. 
Having succeeded in reaching the passage where 


72 


MERRY-ANDREW 


Andrew was waiting, she sat down on a chair which 
seemed to have been put there for the purpose, 
placed her hands on her hips, and gasped out, ‘‘It’s 
me ’eart, sir! Don’t you take no notice! It’s on’y 
me ’eart!” 

Andrew waited until she had recovered a little. He 
had heard of people dying of joy, and he did not 
wish to kill Mrs. Doubikin by announcing suddenly 
that he had come to take a room from her at the 
lowest possible price. 

“Yes,” she said, “I do ’appen to ’ave a room vacint, 
but it’s not what you might call very smart. It’s at 
the top of the ’ouse — fourth floor front. Why not 
go up with Jane and ’ave a look at it? I’d come 
with yer meself if it wasn’t fer me ’eart. If yer don’t 
’appen to like the room, there’s no ’arm done.” 

Andrew accordingly climbed the stairs with Jane, 
and looked at the room. Mrs. Doubikin had not been 
guilty of undue modesty when she warned him that 
the room was not smart. To be exact, it was a 
servant’s attic, very small, with a sloping roof — be- 
neath which the bed had been pushed — a tiny little 
fireplace, a floor composed mainly of boards that 
danced up and down as you trod on them, paper of a 
very cheap variety peeling off the walls, a few sticks of 
broken and dirty furniture, and a strip or two of oil- 
cloth. The room, however, in Andrew’s eyes had two 
redeeming features. It was pretty sure to be cheap, 
and it was situated in the heart of London. By poking 
his head out of the window he could see the river — 
the same glorious Thames that he had been gazing 
upon from his magnificent apartment at the large 
hotel. True, he could not see very much of it, but 


MERRY-ANDREW 


73 

the Thames was the Thames, and London was London. 
He had decided in his own mind to take the room 
long before he and Jane reached the ground floor. 

Mrs. Doubikin, still panting, though not so heavily, 
was still sitting in the chair near the front door. 

“ ’Ave yer seen it ?” she asked. 

“Yes,” said Andrew. 

“Will it soot?” 

“I think so. How much d’you charge?” 

Mrs. Doubikin looked him over, and remembered 
her duty to Mr. Doubikin. 

“The charge for that room,” she said, “is ten 
shillings a week.” 

“That is quite satisfactory.” 

“Then there’ll be two shillings a week for attend- 
ance,” added Mrs. Doubikin. 

This seemed quite fair to Andrew. One could not 
expect people to be constantly climbing up to the 
fourth floor and down again without paying them 
for it. 

“And there’s a shilling a week for lights,” added 
Mrs. Doubikin. 

“Certainly,” said Andrew. 

“And firing will be so much the scuttle — if you 
should ’appen to want a fire.” 

“I quite understand,” said Andrew. 

“And I make a charge of a shilling a day for break- 
fast. That’s the only meal we serve in the ’ouse. All 
my lodgers ’ave breakfast together in this room.” She 
jerked her thumb over her shoulder, indicating a door 
that faced Andrew. 

“Quite so,” he said. 


74 


MERRY-ANDREW 


“Then when will yer be movin' in?” asked Mrs. 
Doubikin, with great briskness. 

“I should like to move in at once. I will have my 
things sent across from the hotel.” 

At the word “hotel” Mrs. Doubikin pricked up her 
ears, let them down again, and sighed. Had she only 
known that the young man was staying at an hotel, 
she would have done her duty by Mr. Doubikin even 
more thoroughly. Still, there were always little ways 
in which honest and God-fearing folk could come by 
their own, even if folks had settled the terms and 
moved in. 

As soon as his possessions had been carried up to 
the attic, Andrew went round to the nearest stationers 
and bought a bottle of ink, a pen, a box of nibs, some 
blotting-paper, a packet of long envelopes, and a large 
quantity of scribbling paper. He carried them back 
with him to the attic, and at once sat down and began 
an article for Mr. Socrates Quain. It was a little 
awkward to keep Oxford out of it — he realised that 
he must throw overboard at least twenty or thirty good 
subjects relating to Oxford — but at last he decided to 
write an impression of the Thames as seen from his 
attic window. It would have been difficult, of course, 
to have pitched upon a less suitable subject for “Rose- 
mary,” but Andrew made the usual mistake of the in- 
experienced journalist. He fancied that, because the 
Thames interested him, because it lent itself to a word- 
picture, because it enabled him to indulge in all sorts 
of picturesque and sentimental imaginings, that it 
would also interest the readers of “Rosemary.” 

He finished the article by ten o’clock, posted it, and 
called at the hotel to see if there were any letters for 


MERRY-ANDREW 75 

him. There were none. Obviously, therefore, Mr. 
Keep was giving serious consideration to the article 
that Andrew had sent him on the previous day. Per- 
haps he had made up his mind to accept it — perhaps 
there would be a proof for him in the morning. If 
he received two guineas for the article, and could 
write one every day, that would be fourteen guineas 
a week. Fourteen guineas a week would amount to 
considerably more than seven hundred pounds a year. 
Sylvia had mentioned five hundred as the sum on 
which they could get married ; on seven hundred they 
would be able to live in lavish style. If he could write 
two articles a day, at the same rate of payment, that 
would mean fourteen hundred a year. Fourteen 
hundred a year ! That would be a magnificent income ! 

Exhilarated by these feats in mental arithmetic, he 
turned into Gatti’s, and ordered a steak and fried po- 
tatoes, and a bottle of beer. There is quite enough 
nourishment in a steak to keep a young man going 
between ten-thirty at night and breakfast-time the next 
morning, but the waiter tempted him with a list of 
sweets, and Andrew could not resist some apple tart 
and cream. This led, by mere force of habit, to cheese 
and biscuits; a cup of coffee was the most natural 
thing in the world, and he thought he might as well 
have a small cigar with his coffee. The bill came to 
three-and-six, and he gave the waiter the odd six- 
pence. After all, that was much cheaper than dining 
at the hotel, and what was four shillings out of the 
two guineas that he had (probably) earned that 
evening? He strolled home in a very complacent 
frame of mind, and felt very grand indeed as he 


MERRY-ANDREW 


76 

slipped his latchkey into the door and let himself into 
the shabby little hall, strewn with yellow envelopes. 

Mrs. Doubikin, hearing him come in, called from 
the basement to know at what hour he would like his 
breakfast. 

“You can ’ave it at any time between eight and ten,” 
she informed him, “but we can’t serve no breakfusses 
after ten.” 

Andrew thought that nine o’clock would do very 
nicely, and climbed the stairs to his attic, where he re- 
mained for a long time at the window, looking out at 
the river, and thinking of Sylvia, and the glorious life 
that was in front of them. 

He had not been very long in bed when loud voices 
from the street below startled him out of his first 
sleep. Jumping up hastily, he ran to the window and 
looked down. A man was leaning against the railings 
of the opposite house, and a woman was hitting him 
about the face and body with her clenched fist. Every 
time she struck him the woman shouted, in a high 
voice thickened with drink, some stimulating phrase. 
The man made a feeble resistance to the blows, 
but was apparently more concerned in keeping him- 
self in an upright attitude by clinging to the rail- 
ings. Andrew expected to see a large crowd collect, 
and was quite sure that both the man and the woman 
would presently be arrested and taken off to the police 
station. But nothing of the sort happened. A few 
loafers followed the progress of the affair at a safe 
distance, occasionally directing some jeering comment 
at the woman, the man being too far gone to appre- 
ciate their humour. When the woman had tired her- 
self out, she suddenly seized the man by the arm, 


MERRY-ANDREW 


77 

and dragged him away with her round the corner. 
Silence fell upon the street, save for the amorous 
tones of the cats of the neighbourhood, who were 
evidently holding a soiree of exceptional importance. 
Andrew soon became used to such sounds of the night. 

On awaking next morning, he looked round for the 
bell, with the intention of asking Jane to direct him to 
the bathroom. But there was no bell visible. He 
opened the door, and advanced to the stairhead. Jane 
presently appeared on the landing below, a pail in one 
hand and a wet cloth in the other. 

“Jane!” called Andrew. 

Jane looked up. 

“Could you tell me where the bathroom is?” 

Jane grinned. “There ain’t none,” she said. 

“No bathroom?” repeated Andrew. 

“Not all the time as I’ve bin ’ere.” 

Andrew returned to his room, and closed the door. 
This was quite an unexpected shock. Never before in 
his life had he been in a house without a bathroom. 
He began to perceive that hotels had their advantages. 
He must buy a bath that very day. It would be like 
his rooms at Oxford all over again. Somehow or 
other, though he should have been depressed by that 
thought, it cheered him up, and he put on one of his 
Oxford ties in order to stimulate the feeling. Then 
he ran downstairs, humming a gay tune, and entered 
the general breakfast-room. 

Most of the boarders had had breakfast and gone 
about their business, but there were still three at the 
table. One of these was the huge man he had seen 
opening the telegrams. He had not yet begun his 
breakfast, but sat at the table in front of an enormous 


MERRY-ANDREW 


78 

pile of unopened letters. It was quite the largest pile 
of letters that Andrew had ever seen. The huge man 
opened them very slowly, threw the envelopes on the 
floor, and laid the letters themselves in an untidy pile 
to the left of him. Some of the letters, Andrew no- 
ticed with surprise, contained photographs, and every 
now and then the huge man would pause for a moment 
and look with indifference at one of the photographs. 

The other two breakfasters were a red-haired youth, 
in a very high collar turned over at the corners, which 
were none too clean, and a very pale-faced man, about 
forty-five years of age, in a shabby suit. Nobody 
spoke; nothing was heard save the guzzling of the 
red-haired youth as he swallowed his coffee, the masti- 
cations of the man in the shabby suit as he chewed 
his bacon, and the sighs of the huge man as he opened 
his mysterious pile of letters. Presently the red-haired 
youth and the man in the shabby suit left the table, and 
Andrew was left alone with the huge man. 

Mrs. Doubikin now came in, clad in a dirty print 
dress, and an even dirtier coarse apron. 

“Good morning, Mr. Crichton,” she panted. “ ’Ow 
long d’yer s’pose Mr. Foottit’ll be afore Vs ready fer 
’is breakfus?” 

“Mr. Foottit,” replied Mr. Crichton, with ponderous 
formality and exactitude, “will present himself at this 
festal board within the space of five minutes, Mrs. 
Doubikin.” 

“Ho! Then I’ll go and serve up yer breakfusses. 
You and Mr. Foottit won’t mind this young gentleman 
’aving ’is at the same time, I dessay?” 

“Not at all,” replied Mr. Crichton, and then added, 
as he slowly opened yet another envelope, after bow- 


MERRY-ANDREW 79 

ing in a very dignified way indeed to Andrew, ‘‘Not 
in the very least.” 

Mrs. Doubikin descended to the kitchen in a series 
of short bumps, and Andrew waited expectantly for 
Mr. Foottit. That gentleman proved to be the very 
antithesis of Mr. Crichton. He was a short person, 
cherubic in appearance, and as gay in his manner as a 
little bird upon a twig. He bowed low to Andrew, 
who, unaccustomed to such ceremony, rose from his 
seat, flushed, and endeavoured to return the salute in 
a becoming manner. Then Mr. Foottit waved a col- 
oured handkerchief at Mr. Crichton with his right 
hand, described a semicircle in the air with his left 
hand, seated himself very briskly at the table, crossed 
one of his little legs over the other, and burst into 
song. 

“Damn it,” muttered Mr. Crichton, “don’t do that !” 

“Nerves?” cried Mr. Foottit. “Nerves, Theophilus? 
What right have you to nerves ? What right have any 
of us to nerves, if it comes to that? Have I nerves? 
Yes, but they are my servants, not my masters. I 
revel in noise of all kinds! The shriek of a railway- 
engine, the toot-toot of a motor-horn, the sudden yell 
of the newsboy, the clanging bell of a fire-engine, even 
the crash of the plates when our beloved Jane places 
them before us — I batten upon these things! Nerves, 
forsooth? I’m surprised at you! I repeat, sir, that 
you have no right whatever to nerves at your time of 
life, and neither has anybody else!” 

“If you had let me go to bed instead of sitting up 
till half-past two drinking your beastly whisky—!” 
grumbled Mr. Crichton. 

“My dear fellow, how can you say that? You 


MERRY-ANDREW 


80 

know very well that you sat up of your own accord. 
Then why blame me? Can I help it if my conversa- 
tion is so fascinating that you cannot tear yourself 
away until half-past two in the morning? I call that 
the basest ingratitude! What do you say, sir?” he 
added, suddenly turning to Andrew. 

“Yes,” said Andrew. 

“What ?” growled Mr. Crichton, also rounding upon 
Andrew. 

“Of course,” Andrew explained, “I don’t know the 
circumstances of the case. I merely ” 

“Then you shouldn’t give an opinion,” muttered Mr. 
Crichton. 

“Churlish, Theophilus?” chimed in Mr. Foottit, 
perking his head to one side upon his little shoulders. 
“Churlish? And to the stranger within our gates? 
Oh, fie ! I repeat, Theophilus, fie ! Allow me to con- 
gratulate you, sir,” he said to Andrew, “upon not 
hesitating to give an opinion although you did not 
know the circumstances of the case. Many people, 
indeed, most people, go through their lives without 
expressing any opinions whatsoever, merely because 
they do not know any circumstances of any cases 
whatsoever. Dumb ! Lifetimes of dumbness ! That’s 
what happens to the swinish herd! May I ask, sir, 
whether you happen to be connected with the literary 
profession ?” 

“Yes,” said Andrew, “I am slightly connected with 

it.” 

Mr. Crichton looked sharply at Andrew; then he 
looked at Mr. Foottit; then he turned, with a deep 
sigh, to the business of opening envelopes. 

“Slightly! He says that he is ‘slightly’ connected 


MERRY-ANDREW 


81 


with the literary profession !” Mr. Foottit raised his 
face and hands towards the ceiling with an expres- 
sion of horror. “My dear sir,” he went on, suddenly 
bringing them down again, “never say that you are 
slightly connected with anything, least of all the noble, 
the glorious, the stupendous, the amazing profession 
of letters! You are either steeped to your neck in it, 
you are either bathing in it, you are either wallowing 
in it, you are either almost drowning in it, or you are 
not in it at all! Slightly, forsooth! But tell me, my 
good sir, am I addressing a poet, a dramatist, a 
novelist, a leader writer, or a mere Editor such as 
myself ?” 

An Editor! Andrew's heart began to thump very 
violently. Was he actually living under the same roof 
as an Editor? Was he actually to take his breakfast 
at the same table as an Editor? What an extraordi- 
nary slice of good-fortune had brought him to this 
obscure house in Buckingham Street! Surely the 
fairies must have been leading him by the hand when 
he knocked at Mrs. Doubikin’s door! A fig for 
Messrs. Quain, Keep, and Campbell! He would use 
them, if it suited his purpose to do so, but Mr. Foottit 
was evidently the star to which he must hitch his 
wagon. Mr. Foottit had been delivered into his hands. 
As for Mr. Crichton, if he was the present sub-editor, 
as he appeared to be, so much the worse for him. He 
should be kept on at a nominal salary, but Andrew 
himself would be dealing with that mass of corre- 
spondence before many days were over. 

“Just at present,” he replied, “I am what is called a 
free-lance, but I have had experience in all kinds of 
journalism.” 


MERRY-ANDREW 


82 

Mr. Foottit turned to Mr. Crichton. “You hear 
that, Theophilus ? This gentleman has had experience 
in all kinds of journalism. A mere youth in appear- 
ance — if he will pardon my saying so — he has yet had 
experience in all kinds of journalism. Marvellous !” 
He returned to Andrew. “Might I ask, my dear sir, 
to the staffs of which papers in London or the prov- 
inces you' have been attached ?” 

“Well,” Andrew was forced to admit, “I haven’t 
actually been on the staff of any paper as yet. That 
is just what I should like. When I said that I had 
had experience in all kinds of journalism, I meant that 
I had written many different kinds of articles, and that 
they had been printed in various papers.” 

Mr. Foottit suddenly became very solemn, folded 
his hands upon the table, and looked steadily at An- 
drew for nearly two minutes — which is quite a long 
time for anybody to look steadily at anybody. 

“Let me,” he said, “offer you the advice of a very 
much older man. No, I am not going to dissuade you 
from entering the glorious profession of journalism 
in real earnest. I can see that you anticipate a wet 
blanket, but I am going to offer you instead a warm 
rug. Yes, a very warm and particularly cosy rug — 
the sort of rug upon which a man could very well make 
his bed until a better one was provided for him. The 
lot of the outside contributor, my dear sir, is a very 
harassing, a very precarious lot. The work is 
hard, the anxiety is intense, the disappointments are 
unending, and the rewards are few and far between. 
I have been a free-lance journalist myself in my time, 
and I know. Contrast the position of the man on an 
editorial staff. He is a King! An Emperor! An 


MERRY-ANDREW 


83 

Autocrat! A Ruler! A Despot! The reputations, 
the fortunes, even the lives of others are in his hands. 
I solemnly assure you, my dear sir, that I would 
rather be the Editor of a journal with a sufficiently 
large circulation to command attention than His Most 
Gracious Majesty himself.” 

“So would I,” agreed Andrew. “I should be very 
much obliged if you could tell me how to begin.” 

“The proper way to begin,” said Mr. Foottit, “is to 
apply in the right quarter.” 

“Yes, but which is the right quarter?” 

“I,” said Mr. Foottit, rising from his chair, and 
bowing to Andrew, “am the right quarter.” 

Then he sat down again, and applied himself heartily 
to the poached eggs and fried bacon which had been 
clashed down in front of him by the cheerful Jane. 


CHAPTER VII 


IN WHICH THE WOLVES GOBBLE UP THE LITTLE LAMB 

A NDREW, for his part, was so excited by the 
turn of events that he could scarcely do jus- 
tice to Mrs. Doubikin’s cooking, though that 
lady had continued to do her duty by Mr. Doubikin 
in providing for her new lodger the smallest possible 
amount of food for his shilling. What sort of paper 
could it possibly be that Mr. Foottit edited? What 
was the explanation of all the telegrams in the hall, 
and the photographs lying by the side of Mr. Crichton, 
and Mr. Crichton himself? Where were the offices? 
What was the size of Mr. Foottit’s staff? If it was a 
prosperous paper, why was he living in this obscure 
and dingy lodging-house ? And, most important of 
all, what did Mr. Foottit mean by saying, without 
knowing anything whatever of Andrew’s possibilities, 
that he, Mr. Foottit, was the right quarter to which 
Andrew should apply? 

For answers to all these questions he had to wait 
until the two great men had finished breakfast. Then 
they both rose, and paused for a moment whilst Mr. 
Foottit offered a silent benediction. Mr. Crichton now 
left the room with his huge bundle of correspondence, 
and Andrew heard him slowly climbing the stairs to 
the room on the first floor. As soon as the huge man 
might be supposed to be out of hearing, Mr. Foottit 
jerked his thumb over his shoulder. 

84 


MERRY-ANDREW 


85 


“A very fine fellow, my friend Theophilus Crichton ! 
A man in a thousand! You must get to know him 
better, and then you will appreciate him almost as 
much as I do myself. It is impossible that you should 
appreciate him to the full because it takes years to 
plumb the depths of Crichton’s goodness, amiability, 
noble-heartedness, staunchness, and loyalty. You 
must not judge men by their exterior, my dear sir. 
... By the way, might I presume to ask your 
name ?” 

“My name is Andrew Dick.” 

“Any relation to my friend of the same name at the 
Admiralty ?” 

“I have no relation at the Admiralty. As a matter 
of fact, I have no relations at all.” 

Mr. Foottit’s expression softened. He advanced 
to Andrew, and held out a very small, very plump, 
and very soft hand. 

“No relations? That is sad, but you must not 
say that you have no friends. I am a man of very 
swift judgment, Mr. Dick, and I have taken a great 
fancy to you. In point of fact, I took a great fancy 
to you the very moment I entered the room this morn- 
ing. I saw at a glance that you were one of the 
right sort — one of our sort. I felt instinctively that 
you followed the profession of letters, and I was also 
inclined to tell myself that you had been educated at 
one of our great universities.” 

Andrew paled. Was this splendid chance to be 
snatched from him just as it seemed to be within his 
grasp ? 

“I do happen to be an Oxford man,” he confessed, 
with a note of pathetic entreaty in his voice, “but I 


86 


MERRY-ANDREW 


want you to overlook that, Mr. Foottit. I can at least 
boast that I did not take my degree.” 

“Splendid!” cried Mr. Foottit. “Magnificent! 
There spake a noble mind! It is remarkable to me, 
Mr. Dick, that you, at your tender age, should have 
already grasped the fact that to pass through the Uni- 
versity without taking a degree is the sign of a free and 
soaring mind ! I only wish that I could say the same 
of myself. I am one of those unfortunate beings to 
whom were thrown all the prizes of scholarship. Long 
before I had reached the age of one-and-twenty, I 
found that there were few fields in the realms of learn- 
ing left for me to traverse. What was the result ? In- 
stead of setting out upon my career with a mind un- 
trammelled by the thoughts and philosophies of others, 
my brain was clogged, literally waterlogged, with the 
musings of Aristotle, the heroics of Homer, the melo- 
dies of Virgil, the sophistries of Plato, the amblings of 
Thucydides, and the inanities of Xenophon. I had 
no personality of my own left. What did I do? I 
determined to throw overboard all this knowledge 
that I had acquired with so much labour, but the 
work was hard, and the way was steep. Now, at 
last, you see me as I am — a man of intellect, perhaps, 
but a man of learning and scholarship no longer. In 
short, the Managing Director and Editor of ‘The 
Straight Tip/ ” 

Andrew looked rather blank. 

“Maybe,” continued Mr. Foottit airily, “you have 
not yet heard of ‘The Straight Tip/ That would not 
surprise me, seeing that the journal has been in exist- 
ence for a mere three weeks. In point of fact, our 
third number was issued yesterday. Will you take a 


MERRY-ANDREW 


87 


cigarette? Our good Mrs. Doubikin permits us to 
smoke in this room after breakfast.’' 

Andrew took a cigarette, Mr. Foottit did the same, 
and they seated themselves in the rickety easy-chairs 
on either side of the empty grate. 

“ ‘The Straight Tip,’ ” explained Mr. Foottit, “is 
unique among the journals of this country. It appeals 
to two enormous portions of the population; in point 
of fact, it would be more correct to state that it appeals 
to the whole population divided into two portions. 
Have you ever asked yourself, Mr. Dick, what are 
the ruling passions of this country — or, for the matter 
of that, every country in the world? I will tell you. 
Chance and Religion. You will seldom find these 
ruling passions in the same person, but you will find 
them, nine times out of ten, in the same house. For 
example, the master of the house likes to have his 
shilling on a horserace, whilst the mistress of the house 
loves nothing better than to go to church or chapel. 
Very well. In my paper, ‘The Straight Tip,’ I appeal 
both to the man, who is swayed by the legitimate 
desire to turn his honest shilling into an honest sov- 
ereign, and also to his wife, who is swayed by the 
very praiseworthy desire to ensure a place for herself 
in the next world, whilst being quite willing to make 
the very best of this one. In short, my paper is a 
religious-sporting paper. Is that unique, or is it not ?” 

“It must be unique,” replied Andrew, warming to 
the idea. 

“And it is,” said Mr. Foottit, thumping a soft little 
palm with a soft little fist. “It is unique! Nobody 
has ever thought of such a thing before, and the con- 
sequence will be that I, and those concerned with me 


88 


MERRY-ANDREW 


in this enterprise, will make a huge fortune out of 
it.” 

“Then that explains all those telegrams I saw in 
the hall?” 

“Exactly. My friend, Theophilus Crichton — a most 
praiseworthy man! — takes charge of that department. 
He is, so to speak, my Sporting Editor. We have a 
system whereby our readers can intimate to us the 
particular horse in which they are interested for any 
particular race, and the extent of their interest in 
this horse. We are not bookmakers, you must under- 
stand; nothing of that sort, Mr. Dick; but we are 
willing to help our readers by indicating to others 
the names of the horses which they have indicated 
to us. 

“The religious side of the paper I take charge of 
myself. It is one of my pleasant tasks to show that 
religious convictions and sporting tendencies may go 
hand in hand. I write a leader to that effect in each 
number, and by this means I feel that I am doing a 
good work by reconciling the wives of this country 
to the harmless, and sometimes lucrative, hobbies of 
their husbands. 

“Now I think I have said enough to give you a vague 
idea of the labours that engage myself and that splen- 
did fellow, Theophilus Crichton. Come and see the 
office.” 

He sprang out of his chair and walked rapidly from 
the room, followed no less rapidly by Andrew. Mr. 
Foottit took the stairs at a surprising speed, so that 
the two arrived on the first floor landing almost like a 
flash of lightning. Mr. Foottit threw open the door, 
bowed low, and Andrew passed into the editorial 


MERRY-ANDREW 


89 

sanctum of “The Straight Tip/’ It was a surprisingly 
large room, being, indeed, the main room of the house. 
It looked into the street, and was lighted by two large 
windows of an old-fashioned pattern. In the centre 
of the room stood a huge table, smothered with letters, 
proofs, scribbling paper, pens, envelopes, and news- 
paper cuttings. At the far end of the room was a 
very much smaller table, which supported a very small 
typewriting-machine; seated in front of this table, 
laboriously tapping out a letter with two fingers, was 
Mr. Crichton. For the rest, there were two very old 
arm-chairs, a few sporting reference-books, a Bible, a 
dictionary, a much-thumbed volume of sermons, a 
bottle of whisky, a jug of water, two glasses, a Church- 
man’s Almanack, a portrait of the latest Derby win- 
ner cut from an illustrated paper, and, most important 
of all in Andrew’s eyes, the editorial chair. 

“Here we are!” cried Mr. Foottit, rubbing his 
hands as he seated himself in the post of honour. 
“Here, Mr. Dick, is the greatest room in the world! 
From this room is issued the journal which will event- 
ually sway the hearts and minds of every man and 
woman in this kingdom. At the present moment it 
is not swaying quite so many as we could wish, be- 
cause the rascally book-stalls and newsagents have not 
taken up our journal, so that we have to rely upon 
the halfpenny post, but we shall live down this wicked 
opposition ! We shall break through this domineering 
ring! We shall succeed by virtue of our enthusiasm, 
our genius, and our industry! Allow me to present 
you with a copy of the last issue.” 

He handed to Andrew a small journal, containing, 
in all, some sixteen or twenty pages. It was described, 


90 MERRY-ANDREW 

beneath the title, as “A Weekly Journal for the 
Soulful and the Sporting/’ Side by side, on the front 
page, were the portraits of an eminent jockey and an 
eminent divine; Mr. Foottit was nothing if not thor- 
ough in his methods. On the second page was Mr. 
Foottit’s leader for the week, entitled “All the Win- 
ners,” whilst beneath this ran the quotation, “They 
who run in a race run all, but one receiveth the prize.” 
Facing this, on the third page, were Mr. Theophilus 
Crichton’s selections for the next flat race, rounded 
off, by way of what is known in journalese as a tail- 
piece, by a pen-and-ink sketch of St. Paul’s Cathedral 
by night. 

But the most surprising feature to Andrew of this 
surprising paper was the photographic illustrations. 
Save for the portraits of the jockey and the bishop on 
the first page, the paper did not contain the photo- 
graph of any person of whom he had ever heard. An<$ 
yet it was peppered throughout with portraits. There 
were middle-aged ladies in hats, and old ladies in bon- 
nets, and young ladies with bare heads, and babies 
with bare toes; there were middle-aged men in top- 
hats, and young men in bowlers, and youths in caps. 
There were one or two servant-girls, and one gentle- 
man who might very well have swept a crossing with- 
out attracting undue attention. 

Mr. Foottit, noticing the puzzled expression on 
Andrew’s face, rubbed his soft little hands with glee. 

“You are looking at our illustrations,” he said, “ancf 
you are wondering why you have never heard of all 
those celebrities. I will tell you, Mr. Dick, why you 
have never heard of them; they were not celebrities 
at all until I made them so by publishing their por- 


MERRY-ANDREW 


91 


traits. And why have I published their portraits? 
Well, why not? Why should I be content to follow 
on the hackneyed lines laid down by other journals? 
Why should I present, week after week, the well- 
known features of actresses and actors, politicians and 
society dames, of whom we are all so weary? 

“That is one of my great ideas, Mr. Dick. In their 
various localities, these good people are just as well- 
known, and are of far greater interest than the promi- 
nent personages of the so-called great world. The 
appearance of their portraits in my paper is bound to 
make my paper famous in the district to which these 
worthy people belong. It will be passed from hand 
to hand, from door to door, from street to street. 
Extra copies will be ordered. The particular portrait 
of interest will be cut out, framed in cork, and hung 
upon the wall. I may also tell you, as a professional 
secret, that there is a small fee attaching to the pub- 
lication of these portraits — not a large fee — just a 
mere half-crown or so to cover the expense of making 
the block. Now, Mr. Dick, do I win your confidence, 
or do I not?” 

“You certainly do,” said Andrew. 

“Ha ha ! You hear that, Theophilus ? I have won 
Mr. Dick’s confidence! That is what I call a fine 
morning’s work! And you are prepared to join my 
staff, Mr. Dick? You are prepared to assist my friend 
Theophilus Crichton and myself in our arduous but 
entrancing labours ?” 

“I shall be delighted,” said Andrew, wondering 
when Mr. Foottit would touch upon the question of 
salary. 

“I know what is passing in your mind,” cried the 


92 


MERRY-ANDREW 


little Editor. “You are wondering how you can prove 
to me that I shall find in you a loyal colleague. You 
are wondering why I should be prepared to run the 
risks of letting you into our secrets. I will tell you 
why, Mr. Dick. I am going to do this because, in 
the first place, I took a very great fancy to you from 
the outset; I am going to do it, in the second place, 
because you, in your turn, are going to become bound 
to us more surely than any legal document could 
bind.” 

“Am I ?” said Andrew, surprised. 

“You are. You are going to become one of the 
Founders of this great journal. You are going to 
participate in the gigantic profits that will presently 
accrue from the publication of The Straight Tip/ In 
point of fact, you are going to take up a few Founders’ 
shares — merely, of course, by way of proving that 
confidence in myself that you have so generously ex- 
pressed in words.” 

Andrew felt rather alarmed. Mr. Foottit had evi- 
dently mistaken him for a man of means. Just how 
many Founders’ shares he would be expected to buy 
he could not guess, but the smallest quantity would 
probably be one hundred, and his capital, as we know, 
was reduced to thirteen pounds. An explanation 
would be very awkward. Mr. Foottit would probably 
be annoyed ; Mr. Crichton would certainly be annoyed ; 
the offer of a post on the staff would be withdrawn. 
All this would not matter so much were it not that 
he had to meet them both every morning at break- 
fast. He did not wish to make enemies at the very 
outset of his career as a London journalist. He 
might, of course, offer to pay for the shares in labour, 


MERRY-ANDREW 93 

but how would he live in the meantime? These 
thoughts flashed through his young head in a moment, 
and Mr. Foottit replied to them just as though he had 
uttered them aloud. 

“Pray don’t distress yourself, Mr. Dick. Mr. Crich- 
ton and myself are not seeking financial support for 
our venture; we are not the men to embark upon an 
enterprise of this kind until we can see our way clear 
in that respect. Oh, dear, no! My sole reason for 
asking you to take up a few Founders’ shares is that 
you may have an interest in the sale of the paper quite 
apart from your salary.” 

Andrew drew a deep breath of relief. So there 
was to be a salary. That was good. 

“What I should suggest,” continued Mr. Foottit, 
with the air of one bestowing an enormous favour, “is 
that we assign to you, say, one hundred Founders’ 
shares at the present quotation of two shillings apiece. 
These shares will remain your property for all time — 
unless you choose to sell them when they acquire a 
phenomenal value. By the way, Theophilus, we can 
spare Mr. Dick one hundred Founders’ shares, I 
trust ?” 

Mr. Crichton rose from his seat, crossed the room, 
opened a cupboard, and took out of it something 
that looked like a washing-book. This he consulted 
with the utmost care for several minutes; he then 
replaced it on the shelf, closed the door of the cup- 
board, and said, as he returned slowly to his little 
typewriting-machine, “Yes, sir, we have just that num- 
ber of shares to dispose of.” 

“That is good,” cried Mr. Foottit. “Then shall we 
call it a deal, Mr. Dick? Am I to direct my friend 


94s 


MERRY-ANDREW 


Theophilus to hand you the necessary piece of parch- 
ment, in return for which you will hand me the small 
sum of ten pounds?” 

“There is just one point I should like settled,” said 
Andrew. 

“Certainly, certainly, Mr. Dick. Pray name it.” 

“I should like to know what salary you will be able 
to pay me for working on your paper. I do not, of 
course, expect a large salary, being inexperienced in 
editorial work, but I am quite dependent for my living 
on what I earn, and so you see ” 

“Precisely, precisely. Just one moment.” Mr. 
Foottit crossed to his partner, and they conversed 
earnestly in low tones for a minute or two. Then 
Mr. Foottit returned to his editorial chair, his face 
aglow with benevolence. 

“My friend Theophilus Crichton and myself,” he 
announced, “will be delighted to offer you the posi- 
tion of Assistant-Editor of ‘The Straight Tip/ which 
will carry with it, to commence with, the salary of 
two guineas a week. It is understood, of course, that 
you take up the Founders’ shares at the price I have 
mentioned at once. In five weeks, therefore, you will 
have more than repaid yourself, you will have a sub- 
stantial holding in this valuable property, you will 
have gained invaluable experience, and your salary 
will still be continued, and, I hope, even increased.” 

“Thank you very much,” replied Andrew, already 
drafting in his mind an enthusiastic letter to Sylvia. 
“Excuse my mentioning it, but would it do if I took 
no salary for the first five weeks, and paid for my 
shares in that way?” 

Mr. Foottit stared at him in blank astonishment. 


MERRY-ANDREW 


95 

“My good sir, don’t you know that what you are pro- 
posing directly contravenes the laws of this country? 
Have you never heard of the stringent laws which 
govern the formation of a Limited Liability Company? 
With all the will in the world to oblige you, my friend 
Theophilus Crichton and myself could not possibly run 
the risk of coming into conflict with the Law. I am 
sure, now that I have made the matter plain to you, 
that you will be the first — !” 

Andrew flushed. “I am exceedingly sorry. I didn’t 
know that I was proposing anything illegal. Please 
overlook it. If you will allow me, I will pay for the 
shares at once.” 

Mr. Foottit bowed graciously, and Andrew ran up- 
stairs to his attic, unlocked his suit-case, took out two 
five-pound-notes, and hastened downstairs again to the 
Editorial room of “The Straight Tip.” He handed 
the notes to Mr. Foottit, who tucked them into his 
waistcoat pocket. Then he presented Andrew with a 
piece of paper upon which these words had been typed 
beneath the title of the paper : 

“ Know All, by These Presents , that Mr. Andrew 
Dick, Being a Subject of His Majesty the King of 
England, Hereby Becomes the Sole Possessor of One 
Hundred Founders' Shares in the Registered Copy- 
right Journal Known as ‘The Straight Tip.' Signed — 
Leviticus Foottit. 
Theophilus Crichton.” 

“And so that little matter is settled,” said Mr* 
Foottit. “You will kindly commence your duties, Mr. 
Dick, by taking sole charge of the office whilst my 
friend Theophilus Crichton and myself attend to a 


MERRY-ANDREW 


96 

matter of urgent importance in the immediate vicinity. 
Should enquiries be made for us during our absence, 
you will kindly say that we have every expectation of 
returning to the office within half-an-hour. Pray seat 
yourself in the editorial chair, Mr. Dick, and write 
me a leader for the next issue of the paper on the lines 
that I have indicated. For the present, we wish you 
good luck and good morning.” 

There were two hats upon two pegs near the door. 
One was a clerical wideawake, and the other a white 
topper of the kind usually affected by bookmakers. 
Mr. Foottit put on the wideawake, and Mr. Crichton 
donned the white topper. Then, having linked arms, 
they bowed in a dignified manner to the new Assistant- 
Editor, opened the door, and disappeared. 


CHAPTER VIII 


ANDREW, UNDER STRESS OF CIRCUMSTANCES, TAKES A 
HIDEOUS RESOLVE 

NDREW remained in sole charge of the office 



until four o’clock in the afternoon. Being a 


healthy youth, and one accustomed to ample 


meals at 'regular times, he became so hungry by that 
time that he felt compelled to slip out for a snack. He 
had written his leader, keeping as close as possible 
to the model formulated by Mr. Foottit. He was 
very much surprised when he found that the Editor 
and the Sporting-Editor did not return as soon as they 
had intended, but concluded that the business had 
proved to be of a particularly complicated nature. 

Among the letters and telegrams lying on the table 
in the hall he found an envelope addressed to himself 
in his own handwriting. As he guessed, directly he 
set eyes on it, it contained the article which he had 
sent to “Rosemary,” together with the usual printed 
regrets. What did that matter now? He was part- 
owner of a weekly paper himself ; he was also Assist- 
ant-Editor of that paper. A little luck, a little per- 
severance, and he would soon be as great a man him- 
self as Mr. Socrates Quain. 

After bolting a hasty meal at the nearest restaurant, 
he returned to the office, but the room was still empty. 
At six o’clock he decided that his duties were over for 
the day, and retired to his attic to write to Sylvia. 


97 


98 


MERRY-ANDREW 


“I have a most surprising piece of news for you! 
I have actually become the Assistant-Editor of a 
weekly paper, and my salary, to begin with, is to be 
two guineas a week. What do you think of that? I 
don’t suppose you have ever heard of the paper, be- 
cause it has only just started, but the idea is a rattling 
good one. I will send you a copy to-morrow, and 
of course you shall have one regularly every week. 
I am going to work like mad now that I have got this 
splendid chance. It will be my own fault if I do not 
succeed and go right to the top. 

‘The Editor of the paper is an awfully quaint little 
chap called Foottit. I am sure you would like him, 
and he would amuse you tremendously. He has a 
partner, rather a taciturn sort of fellow named The- 
ophilus Crichton. He is the Sporting-Editor. It is all 
very different from what I had imagined London 
journalism to be, rather less exciting in a way, but 
of course the experience will be invaluable. 

“The above will be my address for some little time 
to come. I have got very pleasant rooms at the top 
of the house, with a view of the Thames. This is in 
the heart of London, and simply teems with real Lon- 
don life and types. Some day, when I am rich and 
famous, I shall bring you down this street and show 
you the house. Now, as I have been hard at it in 
the office all day long, I am going for a walk by the 
river to get some exercise and fresh air. 

“All my love.” 

Andrew again dined well, for, although his capital 
was now reduced to three pounds, and he would have 
to meet Mrs. Doubikin’s bill at the end of the week, 


MERRY-ANDREW 


99 

he could look forward to a regular salary as Assistant- 
Editor of “The Straight Tip.” As he turned the 
corner from John Street into Buckingham Street, a 
sound of merriment fell upon his ear. At any rate, 
it was the sort of noise that we associate with merri- 
ment in this country — two voices, hopelessly out of 
tune both with themselves and each other, loudly 
raised in song. Roughly defined, one might have been 
called a tenor and the other a bass. 

Andrew was rather horrified to discover that the 
uproar was proceeding from the first floor of his own 
house. He was quite accustomed to this sort of thing 
at Oxford, but he had scarcely expected two literary 
men, more or less advanced in years, to confuse pleas- 
ure with business by holding a “rag” in their own 
editorial sanctum. Besides, as is the way with youth, 
he was rather shocked at the idea of middle-aged re- 
sponsible men indulging in the levities of their juniors. 
The thing came upon him as a blow. Instinctively he 
felt less certain of receiving his salary than when the 
appointment was made that morning. 

There was a letter from Sylvia waiting for him in 
the hall-passage, sent on from the hotel. He slipped 
it quickly into his pocket, feeling as though there was 
some desecration to her in allowing her letter to enter 
this shabby and rather queer house. On his way 
upstairs, he met the cheerful Jane. 

“They’ve come back,” said Jane, with a giggle. 

“So I hear,” replied Andrew. 

“Must ’ave got a bit o’ brass orf someone,” con- 
tinued Jane. 

“Very likely,” replied Andrew, with a sinking sen- 
sation at the heart. 


100 


MERRY-ANDREW 


Jane peeped over the banisters, and then drew a 
little nearer to him with a mysterious look on her 
grubby face. 

“Don’t you ’ave too much ter do with that lot,” she 
whispered. 

“What’s the matter with them?” asked Andrew, 
feeling that he had been brought desperately low al- 
ready when it came to conspiring with a lodging- 
house slavey. 

“Matter with ’em ? What d’yer think ?” 

“I don’t know. Mr. Foottit seems a very nice little 
man.” 

“Nice?” Jane allowed herself a gesture which 
conveyed the most supreme contempt. “Nice? Yes, 
’e’s nice enough. Bit too nice, I should think. Bit 
too much soft soap fer my taste. As fer the other, 
I’ll tell yer what ’e is — ’e’s a ’og.” 

“You ought not to say those things unless you know 
anything against them,” observed Andrew. 

“Oughtn’t I ? Orl right. Do as yer like, on’y don’t 
fergit as I warned yer.” 

Andrew passed on to his room. He closed the door 
and the window, but he could not quite shut out these 
sounds of revelry. They formed a queer accompani- 
ment to Sylvia’s letter. 

“I was so awfully delighted,” she wrote, “to hear 
that you began so splendidly. I always knew that you 
had it in you to make a great success, and I am awfully 
proud of you already. It was so brave of you to 
plunge into that great London without knowing any- 
body, and even braver to have bearded those formid- 
able Editors in their lairs. I should have loved to see 
you talking to them! I can quite imagine how you 


MERRY-ANDREW 101 

looked and what you said, and I am not a bit sur- 
prised to hear that they all want you to write for 
them. 

“Yes, I think it is quite wise of you to move out of 
the hotel into rooms. You know you are rather 
inclined to be extravagant, but what is the good of 
earning a lot of money if you spend it all as fast as 
you get it? You will never be any better off if you 
always do that. Forgive this little lecture, but of 
course I feel a good deal of responsibility for you. 
Mind you get very nice rooms, nicely furnished, and 
clean, with nice people to look after you, and be very 
sure that the cooking is good, and that your bed is 
well aired. There’s domesticity for you ! I only wish* 
I could come up and help you to find some rooms, 
but of course that is out of the question. 

“I wonder if you miss me very much, or whether 
you are already beginning to forget? I expect to 
hear in every letter that you have met some beautiful 
and entrancing creature, brilliantly clever and up-to- 
date, who has simply made one bite at you and snapped 
you up. I know that will happen, and you mustn’t 
think of me in the least if it does. The important 
thing is for you to get on and be very happy, but you 
won’t forget our compact, will you? Just send me a 
tiny little line to say it is all over, so that I may 
bestow my royal hand and fortune on some other 
lucky person. I don’t quite see where he is to come 
from — though I have heard that there is a new curate 
at Eastwood, which is only seven miles away after 
all! I must bike over and have a look at him in 
order to be prepared for eventualities. 


102 MERRY-ANDREW 

“Goodbye, dear old boy. Keep your pecker up, and 
you will soon have London at your feet. 

“As much love as you deserve.” 

Andrew was the sole representative of the staff of 
“The Straight Tip” at breakfast the next morning. 
There was the usual pile of letters waiting for Mr. 
Crichton, but the Assistant-Editor did not touch them. 
Ascending to the office after breakfast, he found 
the room reeking of stale cigar smoke and the dregs 
of whisky. There was a broken glass on the floor, 
cigar ash all over the table, and two whisky bottles, 
both quite empty, on the sideboard. What hurt him 
most, however, was the state of his own brilliant 
leader, which he had left for Mr. Foottit to look 
through. The first two pages had been folded into a 
spill, and were half burnt ; the other pages were soaked 
through and through with whisky-and-water. 

He was setting to work on a fresh copy when the 
door opened very quietly, and Mr. Foottit himself 
entered. He was dressed in pyjamas, carpet slippers, 
and a very greasy old dressing-gown. His hair was 
on end, his face pale, his eyes puffy, his chin unshaven, 
and his hands inclined to tremble. On seeing Andrew, 
he stared at him in surprise for a moment, and then, 
with an effort, pulled himself together. 

“Ah, my young friend from Oxford ! Good morn- 
ing, my young friend from Oxford. Already hard at 
work, I see. That’s the way ! Nothing like it! Noth- 
ing like work ! I have been a worker all my life, and 
now see where I am.” 

He shuffled across to the sideboard, and picked up 


MERRY-ANDREW 


103 

the first whisky bottle, holding it on a level with his 
eyes between himself and the window. 

“Empty? That’s a most extraordinary thing! I 
wonder who’s had that? You don’t happen to know, 
my young friend from Oxford, if Theophilus had any 
guests in here last night, do you ?” 

“I rather fancy he had,” said Andrew. “At least, 
I heard sounds of festivity.” 

“Oh, you did, did you? The splendid Theophilus 
had a party, eh? The sly old dog! Why didn’t he 
ask us, eh, my young friend from Oxford? We ought 
to have been in that — don’t you think so? The sly 
old dog!” 

He shuffled back to the sideboard, replaced the first 
bottle, and took up the second. This he also held to 
the light, and with the same result. 

“Empty?” he ejaculated again, genuinely surprised. 
“Both empty? Oh, Theophilus, my Theophilus, you 
are treading the roseate path that leads to destruction ! 
Always beware, my young friend from Oxford, of the 
roseate path that leads to destruction! I have seen 
many men go down that path — young men, gallant 
fellows, brilliant intellects, handsome, brave, dashing 
— and what returns ? I will tell you, my young friend 
from Oxford, what returns — at least, I will tell you 
later.” 

And with that, he turned abruptly, lurched out of 
the room, stumbled across the passage into his bed- 
room, slammed the door, and Andrew saw nothing 
more of him until very much later in the day. 

In the meantime, having the office to himself, he had 
plenty of time for contemplation. 

It was quite clear that Mr. Foottit and Mr. Crichton 


104 


MERRY-ANDREW 


had contrived to do him out of ten pounds. It was 
also clear, in view of the overnight proceedings, that 
he had made a serious mistake in getting mixed up 
with them. But Mr. Foottit had spoken only too 
truthfully when he said that Andrew was going to be- 
come bound to them more surely than any legal docu- 
ment could bind. His only chance of retrieving his 
capital, or any portion of it, lay in remaining Assistant- 
Editor of “The Straight Tip.” Surely Mr. Foottit 
could not go back upon his word to pay him a salary 
of two guineas a week? If he did, the little Editor 
would find that he had to deal with a desperate man, 
and he would have the pleasure of meeting that des- 
perate man at all hours of the day — even, if necessary, 
of the night. 

But what a sorry beginning the whole thing was to 
his career as a professional journalist! What a blow 
to his pride ! In this moment of pardonable despond- 
ency, he looked back over the years that he had lived, 
and he found nothing of which to be particularly 
proud. He had never excelled at any of the usual 
things. At school he had distinguished himself mainly 
as an adroit shirker of work, a weaver of thrilling 
romances for consumption in the dormitory after the 
lights were out and talking was forbidden, a good 
light comedian in the school theatricals, a trick-cyclist, 
a fairly good swimmer, and a fairly successful miler. 
He had taken prizes, but more by virtue of his readi- 
ness with the pen than by knowledge steadily acquired 
from books. At cricket, despite all his efforts, he 
had been utterly useless, and at football he had never 
succeeded in getting his colours. On the whole, there- 
fore, such success as had come to him had been a 


MERRY-ANDREW 105 

success of personality rather than of solid achieve- 
ment. 

His career at Oxford had followed on lines very 
similar. He had taken the earlier examinations with- 
out much difficulty, and had then settled down to a 
thorough enjoyment of an ideally idle life. Every 
now and then he had written something for one of 
the undergraduate journals, which had brought him 
transient fame; he had rowed in the Torpids, but had 
never succeeded in getting his place in the Eight; 
he had made one or two speeches at the Union, which 
had apparently pleased the House, but he had never 
scrambled after office; once he had written a topical 
encore verse for one of the comedians in a touring 
musical comedy playing at the theatre, and had had 
the satisfaction of hearing his lines sung and bawled 
all over the *' Varsity. This pretty well summed up 
his record up to the time of his coming to London. 
It was not, he told himself, ruefully, a career of which 
he could be particularly proud. 

And now, as he sat in this sordid room awaiting 
the companionship of the cheerful ruffians who had 
constituted themselves his masters, he told himself 
that he had missed another opportunity. All his arti- 
cles had been returned to him; all the Editors with 
whom he had been granted interviews had rejected 
his offers of services. He had not much more than 
fifty shillings between himself and starvation — that 
is to say, if Mr. Foottit failed to pay him his salary 
at the end of the week, and this was an eventuality for 
which he must be prepared. One avenue alone was 
now open to him, and that was an avenue from which 
he had turned, again and again, with loathing. As an 


106 MERRY-ANDREW 

Oxford man, and as a person of presentable appear- 
ance, with a fair supply of good clothes, he knew 
that he could always obtain board and lodging, at any 
rate, as an assistant-master in a school. This was 
the easy and the obvious thing to do when one came 
down from Oxford and had to earn one’s own living 
without any particular qualifications for doing it. Of 
course, the scholastic market was terribly overcrowded ; 
nine men out of every ten coming down from the uni- 
versities seem to drift into schools for a time because 
they are sure of a roof over their heads, food to eat, 
a fair supply of pocket-money, and a continuation of 
the kind of life to which they are accustomed, and the 
result of this overcrowding of the market is that the 
salaries, except for the exceptional men, who have 
either taken very good degrees, or have distinguished 
themselves in the athletic world, are proportionately 
low. 

Besides, Andrew hated the whole idea of the thing. 
He did not want to teach little boys to recite “mensa” 
and keep their hands clean; he did not want to trot 
up and down a football field every afternoon of his 
life, simulating an enthusiasm which he did not feel 
in this Gulliver among the Lilliputians sort of busi- 
ness, in order to convince the headmaster who had 
employed him that he was earning his forty or fifty 
pounds a year and his “keep.” The whole business 
was intensely repellent to him, and, quite apart from 
that, he knew, as all those young men who enter the 
scholastic profession without any particular love or 
adaptability for it know, that it led to nothing. For 
ten or fifteen years he could be sure of a bare living ; 
after that he would be superannuated; his methods 


MERRY-ANDREW 107 

would be out-of-date; he would be too stiff even to 
play Gulliver on the football field; his salary would 
gradually become smaller and smaller, and the schools 
in which he was employed would become cheaper 
and cheaper, until at last the day would arrive when 
he would fail to obtain employment even on “mutual 
terms.” 

Still, the situation had to be faced. He was very 
near the end of his tether. He could not expect Mrs. 
Doubikin to let him have unlimited credit whilst he 
established himself as a London journalist. 

Andrew passed at least two hours in more serious 
thought than he had at one time expected ever to 
devote to anything. At the end of that time, he sought 
relief in action. Leaving a little note on the table for 
Mr. Foottit, he dashed up to his attic, put on his new 
hat and his new gloves, took his new stick, and hur- 
ried off to the offices of Messrs. Plumbridge, Slice & 
Co., the well-known scholastic agents of Regent Street. 


CHAPTER IX 


STRANGE RESULT OF MEETING A MAN IN TOO-GOOD BOOTS 

T HE name of Messrs. Plumbridge, Slice & Co. 
trips readily from the lips of Oxford and 
Cambridge men today, just as it has tripped 
for the past twenty or thirty years. The important 
man of this firm is the great, the powerful, the 
feared, the almost omnipotent Plumbridge. Plum- 
bridge, by placing his finger on an electric button, 
can waft a young man north, south, east, or west, 
give him his heart’s desire, start him on the broad 
and easy road that leads, as a rule, nowhere. Plum- 
bridge, it is very well known, has the headmasters 
of Great Britain in his pocket. If Plumbridge 
takes a fancy to you, you can have the pick of 
all the softest jobs; you can drop into one of those 
large and affluent schools where the assistant-masters 
have their own studies, where the work is light, where 
the games are good, where a man is treated as a gen- 
tleman. If Plumbridge takes a fancy to you, you 
may find yourself, when the term is over, on board a 
finely-appointed yacht bound for the Mediterranean 
or the North Sea; you may find yourself seated at 
dinner next to the charming daughter of your million- 
aire employer; you may presently find yourself as 
private secretary to your millionaire employer; and 
then it rests with you whether you do or do not be- 
108 


MERRY-ANDREW 109 

come the son-in-law of your millionaire employer. 
All these things Plumbridge can do, and is doing all 
the year round. That is why the name of Plumbridge 
is spoken with bated breath in many and many a col- 
lege room, and that is why Andrew’s knees shook a 
little as he pushed open the door of Messrs. Plum- 
bridge and Slice’s famous offices, and handed in his 
card at the window marked “Enquiries.” 

The clerk who received the card looked him over 
and appeared to approve. Every young man who en- 
ters these doors has to be approved. He is looked 
over from head to foot exactly like a competing ox 
at a cattle show. If he is of good height, well-dressed, 
square of shoulder, clear of eye, and unmistakably a 
gentleman, it is even possible that the clerk may be 
led into addressing him as “sir.” If, on the other 
hand, he is squat, shabby, timorous, physically unat- 
tractive generally, he might as well spare himself the 
ignominy of a visit to Regent Street. 

Andrew was of good appearance, well-dressed, and 
his still bronzed complexion gave him a spurious air 
of athleticism which impressed the clerk. Nothing 
goes down quite so well in the offices of Messrs. Plum- 
bridge, Slice & Co. as an air of athleticism. Intellect 
is all very well in its way; breeding is better; but 
athleticism rules the roost. If you have secured your 
half-Blue for tennis, Mr. Plumbridge will throw you 
a cheerful nod and a half-smile; if you have secured 
your full Blue for running or jumping, or even for 
putting the weight, Mr. Plumbridge will shake you 
warmly by the hand ; if you have secured your Blue for 
rowing, rugger, or soccer, Mr. Plumbridge will smile 
broadly, wring your hand, and place his left arm about 


110 


MERRY-ANDREW 


your shoulders ; but if you have captained the ’Varsity 
team at Lords, or rowed for either university in the 
’Varsity boat race, Mr. Plumbridge will throw him- 
self on his knees before you, fling his capacious arms 
about your ankles, lay his forehead upon your dusty 
boots, and weep for sheer joy. 

Andrew was told that Mr. Plumbridge would see 
him, but he must wait. 

“About how long do you think?” asked Andrew. 

“I couldn’t say,” replied the clerk. 

“I have to be back at my office as soon as possible.” 

The clerk stared. It was not usual for the young 
gentlemen who came in at that door to talk about 
offices. Perhaps he had made a mistake — perhaps 
Mr. Andrew Dick was not the sort of person that Mr. 
Plumbridge wished to see. Perhaps — it was just pos- 
sible — Mr. Andrew Dick was not a person out of 
whom Mr. Plumbridge would be likely to make any 
money! That was an awful thought! Then a happy 
idea occurred to the clerk. Retreating for a moment 
to his desk, he returned with a printed form, which 
he handed to Andrew. 

“Just fill this in,” he commanded. 

Andrew looked at the paper. He found a series of 
questions of the most intimate and searching kind. 

“Name of father.” “Occupation of father.” “Name 
of mother before marriage.” “Have you ever had 
any disease? If so, state which, and at what dates.” 
“What is the smallest salary you would accept ?” “Are 
you a Churchman?” “Are you an abstainer?” “Do 
you smoke?” “Are you an athlete?” “Give athletic 
record.” “Are you prepared to coach in cricket?” 
“Have you ever lived abroad? If so, state in what 


MERRY-ANDREW 


111 


countries and for what period.” “Can you give refer- 
ences to any member of the aristocracy?” “Do you 
ride?” “Do you swim?” “Do you shoot?” “Do you 
dance?” “Do you sing?” “Do you draw?” “Have 
you any other accomplishments, such as playing any 
musical instrument?” “Are you experienced in ama- 
teur theatricals?” “Married or single?” “State 
height and weight.” “When were you last vacci- 
nated?” “Are you subject to colds, coughs, chills, in- 
fluenza, or bronchitis?” “Is there any record of in- 
sanity in your family?” “Are you a politician? If so, 
state which side you favour.” “Have you any doubts 
as to the authenticity of the Christian religion?” To- 
gether with the usual details as to name of school and 
college. 

We have seen something of Andrew's facility in 
answering questions, and he answered all these with a 
fairly glib and unhesitating pen. The members of 
the aristocracy to whom he referred were not par- 
ticularly dazzling, but he managed to drag a Lady 
Something out of the dim recesses of his early boy- 
hood, and he skipped lightly over the fact that he had 
had chicken-pox, whooping-cough, influenza (slightly), 
and a good many colds in the head. He made the most 
of his somewhat meagre athletic record, wrote learn- 
edly round the authenticity of the Christion religion, 
and patted himself very soundly on the back in the 
matter of amateur theatricals. He read it through, 
and, his usual optimism returning in full force, de- 
clared that the lowest salary he would be prepared to 
accept was one hundred pounds a year with full resi- 
dence. Then he waited. 

He waited for an hour, and still there came no sum- 


112 


MERRY-ANDREW 


mons to the presence of Mr. Plumbridge. He waited 
for an hour and a half, and Mr. Plumbridge remained 
invisible. At the end of two hours he learnt, on ap- 
plication to the suspicious clerk, that Mr. Plumbridge 
had gone out to lunch, and had not yet returned. An- 
drew throttled back his indignation, and darted off 
to the nearest A.B.C. shop, where he partook of a 
piece of lunch-cake and a glass of milk. He was 
learning economy at last, and he made a mental note 
of the fact that you could completely stay the very 
worst pangs of hunger with a piece of lunch-cake cost- 
ing a penny. 

On returning to the offices of Messrs. Plumbridge, 
Slice & Co., he was informed that Mr. Plumbridge 
had asked for him, and that he had missed his turn. 
However, if he cared to call up at twelve o’clock 
the next morning, Mr. Plumbridge would endeavour to 
give him a couple of minutes. It would have been 
obvious to the experienced, although Andrew was not 
yet wise enough to recognise the signs, that Mr. 
Plumbridge had been reading his answers to the ques- 
tions. 

Andrew hastened back to Buckingham Street. 
Whilst he was waiting for the door to be opened, a 
rather shabby individual, who had been apparently 
lurking in the next doorway, came up to him and 
touched his hat. 

“Excuse me, sir, but could you tell me where the 
offices of a paper called The Straight Tip’ are to be 
found?” 

“Certainly,” replied Andrew. “The offices of The 
Straight Tip’ are on the first floor of this house.” 


MERRY-ANDREW 


113 


“Thank you, sir. Would you very kindly oblige me 
with the name of the Editor ?” 

“Well,” said Andrew, “there are two Editors. Mr. 
Leviticus Foottit is the chief Editor, and Mr. Theophi- 
lus Crichton is the Sporting-Editor. I,” he added, 
unable to resist a tiny little bit of swagger, “am the 
Assistant-Editor.” 

“Indeed?” said the shabby man politely. “And 
might I venture to ask your name, sir?” 

“My name is Andrew Dick.” 

The shabby man unexpectedly produced a note-book 
and pencil, and wrote busily for a few moments. 
“Leviticus Foottit, Theophilus Crichton, and Andrew 
Dick,” he read. “Thank you very much, sir. I 
merely wanted to know because I have taken a great 
fancy to the paper, and may be able to do you gentle- 
men a bit of good. Good-afternoon, sir.” 

He strolled away, and Andrew went up to the office. 
He found both the Editors present, Mr. Crichton sit- 
ting in front of his little typewriter, with a wet towel 
bound round his head, and Mr. Foottit carefully 
counting a bundle of postal-orders. As Andrew en- 
tered, the latter looked at him severely. 

“Ah, my young friend from Oxford, so here you 
are at last. This is not the way to become a suc- 
cessful and prosperous proprietor of newspapers, my 
young friend from Oxford. Work, work, work — 
that’s the only thing! Look at me! Look at my 
worthy friend Theophilus Crichton ! Do we spend the 
whole day gadding about London, seeing the sights 
and amusing ourselves? Do you find us feeding the 
bears at the Zoo, or peering into the face of Henry 
the Eighth at Madam Tussaud’s ? Certainly not. Much 


114 


MERRY-ANDREW 


as we may be tempted to do these things, we refrain. 
My friend Theophilus Crichton and I stick to busi- 
ness. That is why we have reached positions of emi- 
ence in our profession. I am sorry, very sorry, to 
observe this laxity in one who has all his career before 
him, who has still to cleave his way through the forest, 
who is but at the foot of the mountain.” 

Andrew explained that he went out because he had 
a business appointment, and there was nothing to do 
in the office. 

“Nothing to do?” cried Mr. Foottit. “Nothing to 
do? You hear that, Theophilus? Our young friend 
from Oxford actually says there was nothing to do, 
and here is the table loaded with proofs to read, and 
articles to be cut and revised, and letters to be written, 
and envelopes to be addressed, and his own leader still 
to be knocked off.” 

“I wrote the leader yesterday,” Andrew protested, 
“but somebody made a spill of the first two sheets, 
and poured some whisky or something over the rest.” 

“Indeed?” exclaimed Mr. Foottit. “Then I think I 
know the culprit; I think I can place my finger with 
unerring instinct upon the guilty person — it must 
have been Jane. That girl will make spills out of 
anything. She would make a spill out of a five-pound- 
note if I was careless enough to leave one lying on 
the table. She has no reverence for literature — not 
the slightest spark of reverence. She treats me and 
my friend Theophilus Crichton as though we were 
ordinary beings, no better than the miserable clerks 
who occupy the cupboards in this house. I shall have 
to speak very severely to Jane, and perhaps to her 


MERRY-ANDREW 115 

mistress. In the meantime, Mr. Dick, I will trouble 
you to write me another leader.” 

Andrew complied, but before beginning, just by way 
of restoring himself to favour with the great men, he 
told Mr. Foottit of his interview with the shabby man 
on the doorstep. The effect of this piece of news was 
astonishing. Mr. Crichton turned slowly in his chair, 
holding his head with both hands, and stared wildly, 
first at Andrew, then at Mr. Foottit, and then at An- 
drew again. Mr. Foottit rose to his feet, his mouth 
open, his face pale, and stared hard at Andrew. 

“What sort of man was this?” he gasped at last. 

“A rather tall man,” said Andrew. 

“Square-shouldered ?” 

“Yes, he was rather square-shouldered.” 

“Short hair?” 

“Yes, I did notice that he had short hair, rather as 
though he might have been in the Army.” 

“Did you look at his boots?” 

“Yes, I looked at him pretty well all over. I have 
a habit of observing people close. I suppose it's 
what they call in the reviews the gift of observation.” 

“Damn the reviews,” snapped Mr. Foottit. “What 
sort of boots was this man wearing?” 

“They were black boots, stoutly made, in a good 
state of repair, and rather large.” 

“In fact, the boots were a bit too good for the suit, 
eh?” 

“Yes, now you come to mention it, I think the boots 
were certainly too good for the suit.” 

“Then will you kindly leave us alone for a moment ? 
I wish to speak privately with my friend Theophilus 
Crichton.” 


116 


MERRY-ANDREW 


Andrew obeyed, taking his leader with him up to 
the attic. He wondered very much why Mr. Foottit 
and Mr. Crichton were so frightened merely be- 
cause a man in a shabby suit and good boots wished 
to do them a good turn. It was quite obvious that 
they were frightened, very frightened indeed. Was it 
possible, he asked himself, with a sudden jump as the 
idea came to him, that they had brought themselves 
within the meshes of the law by accepting money 
from their readers to put on horses? If that was 
the case, he would be in it as well, for he had most 
distinctly told the man his name, and that he was the 
Assistant-Editor of the paper. Here was another 
ghastly blunder! He turned as white as Mr. Foottit 
himself as he suddenly saw a picture of the three of 
them standing together in the dock. 

What should he do? Sneak out of the house that 
night and get clear away? That thought certainly 
occurred to him, but he at once thrust it aside as being 
dishonourable and unworthy. Sylvia, he knew, would 
not approve that course of action. Whatever hap- 
pened, he must stand by his colleagues. He would 
explain to the magistrate, or the judge, or whoever it 
was, that he had not been on the staff of the paper 
much more than twenty-four hours, and had never 
received a penny from it, and had nothing whatever 
to do with the sporting side. Still, that would not 
keep his name out of the papers ; he would figure as a 
defendant in a disreputable police court case, if not 
as a prisoner. Sylvia would be sure to hear about it ; 
Mr. Plumbridge would read the report; his name 
would be branded. He might change it afterwards, 
but people would find out; people always did. He 


MERRY-ANDREW 117 

saw himself trailing about the world like Joseph Con- 
rad’s hero who had once been guilty of cowardice, and 
could find no rest for the sole of his foot to the end 
of his days. Yes, that was what would happen to him, 
but he must see it through. He must not desert his 
colleagues. 

He saw nothing more of Mr. Foottit or Mr. Crich- 
ton that night. Having finished his leader, he took it 
down to the office, but they had gone out. Andrew 
had had nothing to eat since the lunch-cake, so he, 
too, went and had a meal — a light and economical 
meal. Then he went to bed, and dreamed of judges 
in red robes and black caps, and a crowded court, and 
thousands of people pointing fingers of scorn at him, 
and Sylvia turning her back upon him and walking off 
arm in arm with the curate from Eastwood. 

When he came down to breakfast the next morning, 
he was met in the hall by Mrs. Doubikin. 

“Well,” said that lady, “you’ll ’ave the breakfuss- 
room ter yerself this mornin’, Mr. Dick.” 

“How’s that?” asked Andrew. 

“Mr. Foottit and Mr. Crichton ’as left.” 

“ What? ” he almost yelled. 

“They’s left — left late last night. Mr. Foottit said 
as ’e was very anxious to say goodbye ter yew, but 
’e wouldn’t ’ave yer disturbed, not on no account. 
’E was always a very thoughtful gentleman, was Mr. 
Foottit — one of the nicest and most thoughtful gen- 
tlemen I ever ’ad in the ’ouse.” 

“But where have they gone? Mr. Foottit has got 
some money of mine! Besides, he engaged me to 
work on his paper! And then ” 

He stopped himself on the point of telling Mrs. 


118 MERRY-ANDREW 

Doubikin about the shabby man. It was evident from 
her beaming countenance that Mr. Foottit had taken 
good care to leave on excellent terms with his landlady. 
That, of course, would be because he had to depend 
upon her to forward his letters, and he would want 
his letters, more particularly the ones containing pos- 
tal-orders. The whole thing was a plant, and Mrs. 
Doubikin had become a party to it. 

Mrs. Doubikin smiled and shook her head. “I 
wasn’t to say where they’ve gone to,” she replied. 
“No doubt Mr. Foottit’ll be writin’ to you hisself — 
he’s such a thoughtful gentleman. Now don’t you go 
worritin’ yerself, dearie. It’ll all be all right, you 
mark my words. Mr. Foottit isn’t the gentleman ter 
go and do the wrong thing by anybody, that I can 
assure yew. If yer take my advice, you’ll set down 
an’ ’ave yer breakfuss, and then everything’ll be sure 
to come all right. I often tell Mr. Doubikin, when 
’e’s a bit ’ipped, ter set down an’ ’ave a meal, because 
everything always comes all right after a meal. Now 
you jest pop into the breakfuss-room an’ I’ll send Jane 
up with yer breakfuss.” 


CHAPTER X 


ANDREW, HAVING CLASHED WITH THE DOUBIKINS, CAN- 
NONS OFF THEM INTO MR. PLUMBRIDGE 

I T was now of paramount importance to Andrew 
that he should succeed in obtaining a scholastic 
appointment without delay. Whilst it would be 
too much to say, perhaps, that starvation stared him in 
the face, he was certainly coming very near to utter 
destitution. There was no relation to whom he could 
turn, and his pride absolutely forbade him to appeal 
for help to any of his father’s friends or his own Ox- 
ford acquaintances. At the age of twenty-one or 
thereabouts, and in a youth of such keen susceptibilities 
as Andrew, pride is as strong an instinct as may be 
found in the human composition. Just as some things 
are unthinkable to the civilised human being, even in 
the hours of greatest extremity — and it is an undis- 
puted fact that many men of comparatively coarse 
fibre and little education have died of starvation in 
open boats at sea rather than desecrate the dead bodies 
of their companions — so it was unthinkable for a lad 
of Andrew’s temperament to acknowledge to those 
who had known him in comfortable circumstances but 
a few months before that he was now rapidly nearing 
the point when he would not know where to look for 
his next meal. He simply could not do it. Rather 
than that, he would undertake any kind of drudgery. 
119 


120 MERRY-ANDREW 

Luckily, his clothes would be worth something at 
a pawn-shop, but the money he could raise in this 
manner would not last him very long, and it was im- 
possible for him to accept any scholastic post that 
might be offered unless he had a sufficient supply of 
good clothes to take with him. 

To add to his alarm, before he had finished his 
breakfast, the good Mrs. Doubikin, bravely doing her 
duty by Mr. Doubikin, presented him with his bill. 
The week, of course, was not yet up, but Mrs. Doubi- 
kin was an expert in estimating to a nicety the financial 
condition of her lodgers. Whether she knew that Mr. 
Foottit had managed to abstract the greater part of 
his small capital, or whether she feared that Andrew 
would follow the example of his seniors and make 
good his escape from the house, he could not decide; 
the main fact was that she laid the bill upon the table 
and informed him that that was the day when she 
made it a rule for all accounts to be settled. 

Andrew looked at the bill, which ran as follows : — 


Apartments 10/ — 

Attendance 2/ — 

Lights 1/ — 

Seven breakfusses 7/ — 

Use of first floor 5/ — 

Breakages 4/6 

Total £1.9.6. 


The amount startled Andrew, and he added it up 
with some care. 

“Oh, it’s all right,” said Mrs. Doubikin. “I don’t 
never make no mistakes in my bills. There may be 
some as does that, and not many doors away, neither, 


MERRY-ANDREW 


m 


but nobody can’t accuse me of nothing of the sort.” 
Mrs. Doubikin seemed to have great faith in the vir- 
tue of the negative. She could crowd enough negatives 
into one short sentence to have affirmed anything un- 
der the sun. 

“I don’t quite understand,” said Andrew, “what you 
mean by 'use of first floor.’ ” 

“Well, yer did use it, didn’t yer?” 

“Yes, but only as Mr. Foottit’s employee.” 

“I can’t ’elp what yer used it as. It stands ter rea- 
son, if yew uses a room, yer must expect ter pay 
fer it. There yer sets, wearin’ out my chairs an’ my 
carpet, an’ yer can’t expect ter ’ave all them privlidges 
fer a mere thankyew. I ’ope I know my duty by 
Mr. Doubikin better’n ter allow that.” 

“But I understood that Mr. Foottit had taken the 
room, and was paying you for it?” 

“What you understood, my good young man, and 
what’s the facks of the case is another matter. I 
made my arrangements with Mr. Foottit, and what 
arrangements Mr. Foottit made ’e abode by; that’s a 
private matter between me an’ Mr. Foottit. What I 
ses ter yew is, yew ’ad parshul use of the first-floor 
front, an’ so yew must expect ter pay fer it. All said 
an’ done, five shillings ain’t much fer the privlidge 
of settin’ in a room like that there. Me an’ Mr. Doubi- 
kin ’as ter set in the kitching in order as you gents 
might do yer writin’ an’ what not in comfort, so why 
shouldn’t we be compensed ? Answer me that !” 

Poor Andrew perceived that this was an intermin- 
able argument. If the woman chose to do him out 
of five shillings, he would have to pay it, or else walk 
out of the house leaving all his belongings behind 


122 MERRY-ANDREW 

him. He did not at all fancy a wrestle with Mr. Dou- 
bikin in the hall or on the doorstep. He was in quite 
sufficient trouble without figuring in a police court as 
the hero or the villain of a Buckingham Street scrap. 

“Then there’s another item,” he observed. “You’ve 
charged me four-and-sixpence for breakages. Would 
you kindly tell me what I’ve broken?” 

“There’s two things,” replied Mrs. Doubikin, trucu- 
lently. It was the truculence of the bully who has a 
poor cause but the stronger arm. “There’s the jug 
an’ the wallpaper.” 

“The jug and the wallpaper?” repeated Andrew, 
staring at her with frank amazement. “What have I 
done either to the jug or the wallpaper?” 

“Yer’ve chipped the jug, which spoils the ’ole set, 
an’ yer’ve tore the wallpaper, which means as I shall 
’ave ter ’ave the ’ole room repapered. If I did my 
duty by Mr. Doubikin, which, thank God, I mostly 
does, I should charge yew fourteen-an’-six instead of 
four-an’-six. But I never was one ter be ’ard on 
young men, an’ so I’m lettin’ yer down light.” 

“But I haven’t the slightest recollection of either 
chipping the jug or tearing the wallpaper,” protested 
Andrew. 

“That’s very likely. Young men as keeps the hours 
as you keeps very often can’t recklect of a mornin’ 
what they done overnight. If it wasn’t fer me ’eart, 
I’d climb up ter that there room this moment, an’ 
show yer just where that jug’s bin chipped an’ that 
wallpaper’s bin tore. But me ’eart’s that bad I daren’t 
attempt it. All I can say is, if yew don’t believe me, 
if yew can’t take the word of an honest woman, the 


MERRY-ANDREW 


123 


best thing I can do is ter call down the stairs fer 
Mr. Doubikin.” 

She stepped towards the door, and called, “Halger- 
non !” 

Andrew felt some natural curiosity about Mr. Dou- 
bikin. He had never yet seen his landlord, nor had 
he even heard him. Occasionally the aroma of strong 
tobacco came floating up from the kitchen, but that 
was the only sign of existence that Mr. Doubikin had 
yet given. He never appeared to carry luggage up 
the stairs, or to open the door, or to take a message. 
He did not even fetch the beer from the neighbouring 
public-house ; that sacred duty was always entrusted 
to the cheerful Jane. 

“Halgernon !” repeated Mrs. Doubikin in a louder 
voice. “J ust step up ’ere a moment, will yer? I want 
yer.” 

During the pause that followed, Mrs. Doubikin stood 
close to the door of the breakfast-room as though 
prepared to prevent Andrew’s dash for liberty should 
he intend such a step. Andrew, for his part, went on 
eating his breakfast and trying to preserve an appear- 
ance of unruffled calm; as a matter of fact, he was 
feeling extremely uncomfortable, not to say distinctly 
nervous. He did not apprehend personal violence 
from Mr. Doubikin ; indeed, he would rather have wel- 
comed a quiet bout in the back-room as a relief to his 
overcharged feelings. What he did fear, could he have 
defined his feelings, was a vulgar public row into 
which some of the other lodgers, and possibly some of 
the neighbours, might be dragged, and the publicity 
which would follow. These people had nothing to 
fear from publicity ; he had everything. 


MERRY-ANDREW 


1M 

Presently there was a shuffling noise in the passage 
without, and then Mr. Doubikin, aided by a push in 
the back from his wife, shot through the doorway 
of the breakfast-room. He was a cadaverous indi- 
vidual, with hollow cheeks, sunken eyes, and a loose 
yellow skin. He wore a straggling moustache, beard, 
and whiskers ; these were grown, apparently, more for 
the sake of avoiding the trouble of shaving than be- 
cause Mr. Doubikin took an interest in his personal 
appearance. His clothes were old and greasy, and 
his hands trembled slightly all the time he was in the 
room as though he suffered from some mild form of 
palsy. He had a pipe in his mouth — a straight briar 
pipe, very short, and very battered as to the bowl. 
Andrew identified the tobacco as the same that had 
occasionally been smoked in the kitchen below. This 
morning orgy of luxury lent weight to his suspicion 
that Mr. Foottit had done well by the Doubikins before 
leaving. 

“This ’ere young man,” said Mrs. Doubikin, “ ’as as 
good as called me a liar ter me very face. Are yew 
goin’ ter stand there, Mr. Doubikin, an’ ’ear me in- 
sulted ?” 

Mr. Doubikin, who had kept his eyes steadily di- 
rected towards Andrew from the very moment that 
he had entered the room, advanced one pace in the 
direction of his lodger. 

“I did nothing of the kind,” replied Andrew, as 
quickly as possible. “Mrs. Doubikin has charged me 
four-and-sixpence for breakages. I said that, to the 
best of my belief, I had not broken anything, or even 
damaged anything.” 

“Yew ’ear that? What d’yer think of it? ’E’s 


MERRY-ANDREW 125 

chipped the jug an’ tore the wallpaper. I’ve told ’im 
so till I’m almost black in the face, ter say nothing of 
me’ eart cornin’ on that bad that I might drop down 
dead at ’is feet without a moment’s notice, an’ ’e’s the 
face ter ’sinuate as I’m tryin’ ter do ’im. Are you 
goin’ ter stand there, Mr. Doubikin, an’ ’ear me in- 
sulted ?” 

Mr. Doubikin, who had not removed his eyes from 
Andrew’s face for a single second, advanced another 
pace. Andrew judged that it was time to get to his 
feet. 

“I am quite willing to pay anything that is right 
and proper,” he said, “but I don’t think it fair that 
I should be charged four-and-six for things that I 
didn’t do.” 

“’Ark at that!” shouted Mrs. Doubikin. “For the 
third time, Mr. Doubikin, are yew goin’ ter stand 
there like a sausage an’ ’ear me insulted?” 

Mr. Doubikin took a third pace forward, and at 
last said, in a voice so low and husky that Andrew 
scarcely caught the remark, “Pig.” 

Andrew did not know whether to laugh or to be 
angry. He wanted to laugh, but he felt that it was 
due to his dignity to assume anger. He therefore re- 
plied, in a tone that he hoped sounded haughtily con- 
temptuous, “You’d better be careful what you’re say- 

• _ » 

mg. 

Mr. Doubikin took a fourth pace forward, which 
brought him unpleasantly close to Andrew. Mrs. 
Doubikin, still guarding the door, sought by inflamma- 
tory words to bring the conflict to a crisis. 

“And ter think,” she bawled, “that I should live ter 
be treated in this way in me own ’ouse, an’ in the 


126 MERRY-ANDREW 

presence of me own lorful ’usband ! Not content with 
ruinin’ all the furniture in ’is room, which cost I 
don’t know ’ow much, ’e must needs insult me, an’ me 
in that state with me ’eart that I can ’ardly stand an’ 
speak a word in me own defence! Mr. Doubikin, 
I’m ashamed of yer ! I’m glad me pore mother never 
lived ter see this day!” 

Mr. Doubikin, who had never removed his eyes 
from Andrew’s face, again muttered in that almost 
inaudible husky voice, “Pig.” 

“Is that all yew can think of ?” screamed Mrs. Dou- 
bikin. “Is that the only word yer’ve got in yer ’ed? 
Yew ain’t ’alf a man, yew ain’t! Why, there’s Mrs. 
Drubb’s ’usband next door, ’e’d ’ave called ’im every- 
thing under the sun by this time! There’s a man as 
can stick up fer a woman! What a flow! What 
words! I’ve ’eard ’im lay ’is tongue to Mrs. Drubb 
until I could ’ave worshipped that man! An’ as fer 
yew, standin’ there almost like a dumb one, yew fair 
give me the sick! Get downstairs again if that’s the 
best yer can do!” 

Mr. Doubikin, still with his eyes on Andrew, backed 
slowly to the door, and disappeared. Mrs. Doubikin 
placed a chair for herself between the door and the 
end of the table and sat down. 

“If yew think,” she said, “that I’m the woman ter 
let meself be beat by one of yore sort, yore makin’ 
the biggest mistake that ever yew made in yore puff. 
I’ve bin lettin’ apartments too long fer that, my young 
gentleman. I shall stay ’ere until yew brasses up, so 
don’t yew make no blooming error about thet.” 

And she would. Andrew felt that she would. For 
the first time in his life he realised the utter reckless- 


MERRY-ANDREW 127 

ness of an angry woman. Mrs. Doubikin, of course, 
was absolutely in the wrong; he had not chipped the 
jug, neither had he torn the wallpaper. But how could 
he prove it? What could the lad do? Physically he 
might be more than a match for Mrs. Doubikin, but she 
would scream the house down, if not the street down, 
should he attempt to force his way past her. He de- 
cided to resort to strategy. 

“Very well,” he replied. “I don’t admit that IVe 
done this damage for which you have charged me, nor 
do I think it fair that I should be asked to pay for 
the use of a room which Mr. Foottit has presumably 
settled for, but rather than have any more of this 
unpleasantness, I will give you the money. It is up- 
stairs,” he added. “I will go and fetch it.” 

Mrs. Doubikin preceded him from the room, and 
again seated herself just inside the front door, so 
that it would be quite impossible for Andrew to leave 
the house until the bill was paid. Seeing that he was 
outwitted, he went up to his attic, took thirty shillings 
out of his suit-case, and transferred it to the eager, 
capacious, and grubby palm of Mrs. Doubikin. That 
lady immediately became all smiles and maternal so- 
licitude. She was exceedingly sorry that there had 
been any words over the matter. She had taken a 
great fancy to Andrew from the first, and she wished 
for nothing more than to make him happy and com- 
fortable. She hoped that he would not cherish any 
resentment, but would remain in her house as long as 
his visit to London lasted, and would often return 
thither on subsequent occasions. She would fetch him 
his sixpence change and receipt the bill. After all, 


128 


MERRY-ANDREW 


he must bear in mind that she was a poor woman, and 
had to do her duty by Mr. Doubikin. 

With his last sovereign and the receipted bill in his 
pocket, Andrew left the house to keep his appointment 
with Mr. Plumbridge. As he made his way up Buck- 
ingham Street, he thought he caught sight of the 
shabby man in the too-good boots, but could not be 
quite certain. 

The suspicious clerk at the offices of Messrs. Plum- 
bridge, Slice & Co. received him with considerable 
hauteur, and curtly informed him that Mr. Plum- 
bridge was engaged. Andrew waited about half-an- 
hour, and then had the satisfaction of seeing a short 
man with a prominent waistcoat and a loud voice 
emerge from an inner office with a tall, broad-shoul- 
dered, red- faced, stupid-looking youth who had made a 
definite place for himself in the world by throwing a 
hammer weighing sixteen pounds a distance of a hun- 
dred-and-fifty-one feet. The red-faced young man 
seemed fully conscious of his importance in the uni- 
versal scheme, and Mr. Plumbridge was evidently con- 
scious of it as well. He was grasping the red-faced 
young man affectionately by the left biceps, and con- 
ducting him gently, even obsequiously, to the door. 

“Very well, then,” he was saying, “I shall at once 
communicate with these people, and let you have a 
line at the earliest possible moment. I quite agree 
with you, as you know, that all your demands are justi- 
fied, and I think I can assure you that if I say they 
are justified they will be acceded to at once.” 

“Eh?” said the red- faced young man. 

“I say that I think your demands will be acceded 
to — that is, granted — at once.” 


MERRY-ANDREW 129 

“Oh,” said the red-faced young man. 

“Yes, yes. Very well, then. Good-morning, good- 
morning! Run in any time that you wish to see me! 
You will find me entirely at your disposal.” 

The red-faced young man cannoned against the 
door-post, ricocheted on to the other door-post, and 
so made his way, with no little grace, into the street. 
Mr. Plumbridge, having seen him safely on to the 
pavement, cast one withering glance at Andrew, re- 
turned to his office, and slammed the door. Twenty 
minutes later, a bell rang in the outer office, and the 
suspicious clerk informed Andrew that Mr. Plum- 
bridge would now see him. 

His nerves thoroughly shaken by the well-known 
process of being kept waiting, Andrew at last entered 
the great presence. Mr. Plumbridge was writing, and 
he went on writing for some little time. It was during 
this period that a little devil entered into the boy’s 
brain, and made him ask himself why in the world he 
should be treated in this fashion by a man like Plum- 
bridge. 

We need hardly say that Andrew was quite young. 
He should have been very grateful to Mr. Plumbridge 
for seeing him at all, and should have meekly waited 
as long as Mr. Plumbridge cared to keep him standing 
in front of his desk. But Andrew was getting a little 
tired of things in general. He did not care very much, 
at this moment, what happened to him. He felt that 
the world was being a little too much for him, and so, 
with the natural impatience of youth, he felt inclined 
to turn upon the world and return kick for kick. Mr. 
Plumbridge being the nearest representative of the 
world at the moment, Andrew ached to kick Mr. 


130 MERRY-ANDREW 

Plumbridge. His blood tingled at the thought; he 
could imagine just how Mr. Plumbridge would feel to 
kick. At the moment, probably, Andrew was a lit- 
tle mad. 

“Good-morning,” he said suddenly, in a loud voice. 

Mr. Plumbridge jumped. Then, pretending he 
hadn’t jumped, he looked up and favoured Andrew 
with the well-known stare that had shot terror into 
so many young hearts. 

“Sit down,” he said, waving his pen towards a va- 
cant chair. 

“Thank you,” said Andrew, and remained standing. 

Mr. Plumbridge, just as a matter of principle, re- 
turned to his writing for a few moments. Then he 
laid down the pen, leaned back in his chair, placed the 
tips of his fingers together, drew down his brows, and 
looked searchingly at Andrew. 

“And what,” he asked ponderously, “can I do for 
you ?” 

“I believe,” observed Andrew, “you are a scholastic 
agent, are you not?” 

“I am,” said Mr. Plumbridge. 

“Then I shall be obliged if, in consideration of the 
usual commission, you will find me a post.” 

“What is your name ?” asked Mr. Plumbridge. 

“My name is Andrew Dick. I filled in a very long 
paper in this office yesterday, and I waited about three 
hours because you said that you would see me. In the 
end I was told that you could not see me, but would 
see me to-day at twelve. To-day I have waited rather 
more than one hour.” 

“All this is very interesting,” observed Mr. Plum- 
bridge, “but scarcely to the point. When I tell you, 


MERRY-ANDREW 


131 


Mr. — er — Dick, that something like one thousand 
young men pass through my hands every year, you 
will understand that I am a very busy man, and can- 
not see complete strangers, who have not troubled to 
make appointments, at a moment’s notice. Here, I 
see, is your paper. You omit to mention whether you 
have taken your degree, Mr. Dick.” 

“No,” said Andrew, “I have not taken my degree.” 

“That is a pity. There is a prejudice — an old- 
fashioned prejudice, if you like, but still a prejudice 
— amongst schoolmasters in favour of men who have 
taken their degrees. I should advise you, Mr. Dick, 
to take yours at the earliest possible moment. Have 
you had any previous experience in scholastic work?” 

“No,” said Andrew. “I have had no experience 
in any kind of work. I am a thoroughly idle, useless, 
and ignorant person. But as I happen to know of 
hundreds of other thoroughly idle, useless, and igno- 
rant persons who had no difficulty in obtaining assist- 
ant-masterships, I ventured to think that I might do 
the same.” 

“You are certainly very outspoken, Mr. Dick. It 
is quite true, I regret to say, that the scholastic pro- 
fession is peppered all over with the class of person 
that you describe, but that class of person does not 
obtain the salary that you demand, nor does that class 
of person pass through my hands. I never send a 
man to a school unless I perceive in him some very 
definite qualifications for the profession of his adop- 
tion. Do you play football, Mr. Dick?” 

“Extremely badly.” 

“Association or Rugby?” 

“Association.” 


132 


MERRY-ANDREW 


“That is just as well. My principals, of course, 
prefer men who are good at games, but they cannot 
all afford to pay for first-class games. The less im- 
portant schools have to be content with second-class 
games, and the third-rate schools, I presume, put up 
with very bad games. But I need hardly say that I 
know nothing of those. What sort of references can 
you give, Mr. Dick ?” 

“I could refer you ,” said Andrew, “to the Reverend 
John Gehazi Stiff key, who was my Theological tutor 
at Oxford, but he’s no good at games, either. I don’t 
suppose he could even play battledore and shuttle- 
cock.” 

“I should not refer to Mr. Stiffkey for a testimonial 
as to your games, but rather for diligence and good- 
conduct.” 

“Stiffkey knows nothing whatever about my conduct, 
not having been my moral tutor, and I’m afraid he 
would give me a very poor testimonial for diligence.” 

“Indeed? You seem determined to make the worst 
of yourself, Mr. Dick.” 

“Oh, I don’t know that. You can see for yourself 
what I am. I can talk the King’s English, and I don’t 
eat peas with my knife, and I suppose I’ve got enough 
intelligence to drill the elements of Latin grammar into 
a lot of dirty-nosed little boys. I don’t suppose I 
should get drunk, nor should I attempt to elope with 
the headmaster’s wife. My clothes are not in rags, I 
take a bath every morning, and I don’t owe anybody 
a penny. If you can get a thousand young men in 
this office every year who can truthfully say as much 
as that, your job must be a very pleasant and light 
one.” 


MERRY-ANDREW 133 

Mr. Plumbridge rose. “Mr. Dick,” he said sol- 
emnly, “I am afraid you are trifling with a very seri- 
ous matter. Amongst all the qualifications that you 
have mentioned, you have omitted one that is abso- 
lutely necessary if you wish to succeed as an assistant- 
master, namely, humility. If you had a splendid ath- 
letic record, such as the gentleman with whom I have 
just had the great pleasure of conversing, or if you 
had distinguished yourself in the Schools, there might 
be some excuse for the arrogance of your tone, al- 
though even then I should deplore it. As it is, I have 
to inform you that I can do nothing whatever for you. 
I should not feel easy in my mind if I was responsible 
for introducing such a firebrand as you appear to be 
into any well-ordered, well-disciplined, and peaceful 
community. My advice to you is to think things over 
very carefully, and then, if you do not see your way 
to treating your seniors and betters with due respect, 
abandon once and for all the notion of entering this 
very great, very responsible, and very noble profes- 
sion. Good-morning.” 

The suspicious-looking clerk was holding open the 
door. Andrew stalked through it, and flung into the 
empty street. 


CHAPTER XI 


A VERY SORDID CHAPTER. BETTER SKIP IT 

NDREW fortified himself after this interview 



with another piece of lunch-cake, and then 


went for a long walk to think things out. 
What was the next move? He had one sovereign 
now between himself and starvation — or the unspeak- 
able humiliation of having to beg. Even if he man- 
aged to get an article written and accepted, he would 
probably have to wait a month before he was paid 
for it. Besides, in his worried mental condition it 
was more difficult than ever to hit upon an idea that 
would prove instantly saleable. He had queered his 
pitch with Plumbridge, Slice & Co. That was a pity, 
and yet the memory of the scene with Mr. Plumbridge 
gave him more satisfaction than any experience that 
he had had since he came to London. He knew quite 
well that, under similar circumstances, he would be- 
have in a precisely similar way. 

As he toiled up towards Hampstead, he thought with 
increasing bitterness of the years and the money that 
he had wasted at Oxford. He was not hypocrite 
enough to regret the fact that he had idled; he knew 
that he would not have idled had the task set before 
him been the right task. If, at the age of eighteen, 
his father had sent him as an apprentice to the office 
of the local weekly paper, he would not now be tramp- 


134 


MERRY-ANDREW 135 

ing London with only a sovereign in his pocket, and 
no notion as to where the next could be obtained. He 
would have had a grounding in his profession; he 
would be able to walk into a London office with proper 
credentials. At present he had ability without tech- 
nique; in London offices they demanded men with 
both ability and technique. He realised that, and de- 
plored the short-sightedness that had thrust him into 
the regular groove. 

He was beginning to lose his faith in the infalli- 
bility of his elders. He was beginning to see that 
education in England is a convention rather than 
a science, and he was beginning to realise how many 
brilliant careers are blighted even before they begin by 
the lack of imagination of those who have the au- 
thority to attempt to force square pegs into round 
holes. And then, getting a little light-headed with 
hunger, he dreamed of an England in the far, far 
distant future, in which the tastes and temperaments 
of children might be studied individually; in which 
the whole system of routine education might be a 
thing of the gruesome and unimaginative dark ages; 
in which, for example, a boy should not be taught 
to associate the name of a foreign country with a list 
of dull imports and exports that had to be learnt 
by heart ; in which the History of England should not 
be degraded in the youthful mind to a mere list of 
very bad kings and very good kings who ascended 
the throne on a certain date and reigned for so many 
years ; in which Latin and Greek should be worshipped 
for their beauty rather than loathed for the irregulari- 
ties, masticated in one horrid chunk, of their gram- 
mars; in which literature should not be considered 


136 MERRY-ANDREW 

as beneath the contempt of such brilliant beings as 
schoolmasters and dons; in which it might be recog- 
nised that French can only be learnt on French soil, 
and German on German soil ; in which, above all, there 
were no such hideous torture-chambers for little chil- 
dren as the average schoolroom. . . . 

On returning to the house in Buckingham Street, 
the hour being now about six o’clock, Andrew found, 
seated upon Mrs. Doubikin’s chair in the dark and 
musty-smelling hall-passage, the man in the shabby 
clothes and the too-good boots. Jane, who opened 
the door to Andrew, intimated that the “gentleman” 
had called to see Mr. Foottit and Mr. Crichton, but, 
finding them not at home, had remained to see Mr. 
Dick. Half guessing at the nature of the man’s er- 
rand, Andrew took the liberty of leading him into 
the empty breakfast-room, and then closed the door. 
No sooner were they alone together than the man in 
shabby clothes produced an official-looking document, 
which, he informed Andrew, was a warrant for his 
arrest. 

“What am I charged with?” asked Andrew, feeling 
almost indifferent to this last blow of Fortune. 

“Well, sir, if you’ll kindly walk with me as far as 
the Station, the charge will be read over to you there. 
All I have to do, you see, is to show my warrant and 
take you into custody.” 

“Are you a policeman ?” asked Andrew. 

“Yes, sir. I’ve been on this job for the last week 
or two, and a fine old wigging I shall get when I tell 
the Chief that the other two blokes have given me 
the slip. How they got away I don’t know, seeing 
as the house was under supervision night and day, 


MERRY-ANDREW 


137 

but I’ve got my suspicions. Now, sir, if you wouldn’t 
mind just stepping as far as Night Street with me, 
you’ll soon know what it’s all about. I ought to warn 
you that anything you say will be taken down and used 
in evidence against you.” 

“Are you going to — to handcuff me?” 

“Why, no, sir, I don’t think that will be necessary. 
You just give me your word that you won’t try to 
make a bolt for it, and we can walk up there together 
without anybody being a penny the wiser. Anyone can 
see you’re a gentleman, and I find that, nine times out 
of ten, you can trust a gentleman when he gives his 
word.” 

“Certainly I will give you my word,” said Andrew. 

“Very good, sir. We may as well start at once.” 

They went out into the passage, and were making 
for the front door when the sight of the little table 
on which letters always lay brought Andrew to a halt. 

“Shall I be back here this evening?” he whispered 
to the constable. 

“Why, yes, sir, I should think so.” 

“Because there may be a very important letter for 
me, and I shouldn’t like it to get lost.” 

“Don’t you worry about that, sir. Any letters that 
come here addressed to you will be well taken care of. 
I shall see to that.” 

Andrew, marvelling at the solicitude with which he 
seemed to be suddenly surrounded now that he had 
come into contact with the Law, walked up to Night 
Street Police Station alongside the young constable in 
plain clothes. A few people looked at them curiously 
as they passed; one or two loafers, who evidently 
recognised the type of Andrew’s companion, muttered 


138 


MERRY-ANDREW 


jeering comments; the rest of the world hurried by on 
its business. 

They passed through the large open doorway — open 
all day and all night for the convenience of the miser- 
able weaklings of the neighbourhood who succumbed 
to the lure of cheap alcohol as naturally as wasps suc- 
cumb to the fatal mess of beer and sugar — and entered 
a large and rather shabby room with a desk in the 
centre, benches round the walls, and a glass partition 
through which the Inspector on duty and his assistants 
could be seen busily writing at high desks. This was 
the “Charge Room.” Andrew was told by the con- 
stable in plain clothes to stand before the desk, whilst 
another constable in uniform went to fetch the In- 
spector. 

The reading of the charge did not occupy more 
than a minute or two. Andrew found that he was ac- 
cused of conspiring with Leviticus Foottit and 
Theophilus Crichton, through the agency of a weekly 
journal entitled “The Straight Tip,” to contravene the 
laws of His Majesty the King known as the Lottery 
and Gaming Act. He was further informed that he 
might make a statement if he so desired, but, if he did 
so, it would be used in the evidence to be placed before 
the magistrate on the following morning. He was fur- 
ther informed that he had the right to apply to be 
released for the night on bail. 

“Does that mean that I have to find a certain sum of 
money?” he asked. 

“It means that you will have to furnish the names 
of two respectable householders who are prepared to 
guarantee your appearance at the Court to-morrow 


MERRY-ANDREW 


139 


morning, or, if you fail to appear, to pay over a sub- 
stantial sum of money. ,, 

“And what happens if I can’t give you the names 
of two respectable householders?” 

“In that case, sir,” said the Inspector, not unkindly, 
“we shall have to detain you for the night.” 

“Do you mean that you will lock me up in a cell?” 

The Inspector and the constable in plain clothes and 
the other constables who were standing about smiled 
broadly. 

“Well, sir, I’m afraid we have no very nice bedrooms 
at our disposal.” 

“All right,” said Andrew. “Lock me up.” 

The Inspector looked surprised. “Are you quite 
sure, sir, that you would not care to communicate 
with any of your friends? I shall be very glad to 
send one of my men with a message.” 

“I have no friends,” replied Andrew. “At least, not 
in London.” 

“Are they too far from town for us to get at them ?” 

“Yes, they are too far for you to get at them — 
thank God.” 

“Very good, sir. Take the gentleman away, Bates, 
and make him as comfortable as you can.” 

Constable Bates led Andrew from the Charge Room 
into a long corridor that contained a number of small 
doors with little apertures in them about the height 
of a man’s eyes from the ground. Some of these 
doors were open, and some of them were shut. Glanc- 
ing, as he passed, through the aperture of one of the 
doors that were shut, Andrew was startled to find a 
pair of eyes gazing out at him. The eyes were blood- 
shot, and the face in which they were set was white 


140 MERRY-ANDREW 

and thin, with greyish, stubbly hair on the chin and 
cheek-bones. That look made him shudder. He had 
never before seen a prisoner in a cell, and' it was 
awful to think of a human creature locked up in a 
little box like a dangerous animal in a cage. 

“Say, guv’nor, what’s the time?” growled the man 
in a sodden voice. 

“Time?” replied the constable. “Half-past six.” 

They passed on. The door of the next cell stood 
open, and Constable Bates invited Andrew to enter. 
Andrew obeyed, and found himself in a small com- 
partment about eight feet long, and six feet wide. A 
broad wooden bench, about six feet in length, was 
fixed to one of the walls. For the rest, the cell was 
quite empty. 

Nothing could have been simpler or more effective. 
Here a prisoner could do no damage whatever either 
to himself or to His Majesty’s property. If he 
screamed, or sang, or laughed, or shouted, there was 
nobody to hear him but the other prisoners, who de- 
served it, and the constable on duty, who was used 
to it. Andrew realised that he was separated merely 
by the thickness of a wall from that awful creature 
in the next cell with the staring bloodshot eyes, the 
haggard face, and the sodden voice. To such a pass 
had he come in a few days, thanks to his unbounded 
confidence in his own ability! 

“I shall ’ave to just run through yer pockets,” said 
Constable Bates. “We generally does that in the 
Charge Room, but I thought you might find it more 
privit-like ’ere.” 

Andrew was soon relieved of all his possessions, 
Mr. Bates promising to put them aside very carefully, 


MERRY-ANDREW 141 

and let him have them intact at the earliest possible 
moment. He then enquired whether Andrew would 
like any food or drink. In spite of his agitating 
experiences, Andrew felt distinctly hungry, having 
had nothing to eat since the piece of lunch-cake after 
his interview with Mr. Plumb ridge. At the same 
time, he dared not spend very much of his last sover- 
eign, having a vague idea that it might be sufficient 
to pay the fine and costs in the morning. 

“Thank you,” he said. “Do you know if there’s an 
A.B.C. shop anywhere in the neighbourhood?” 

“Why, yes, sir,” replied Mr. Bates. “There’s one 
just round the corner.” 

“Oh,” said Andrew. “Then, if you wouldn’t mind 
getting me a piece of lunch-cake, I shall be much 
obliged.” 

“Lunch-cake?” repeated Constable Bates. “That 
don’t seem much fer a young gentleman fer ’is sup- 
per !” 

“Thank you,” said Andrew, with dignity, “I am 
very fond of lunch-cake. They ought to give you 
quite a large piece for a penny.” 

“Very good, sir. Anything to drink with it?” 

“I think I’ll have a cup of cocoa.” 

“All right, sir. I’ll attend to it at once.” 

He went out of the cell, shut the door, and turned 
the key. Andrew was now a prisoner. He looked 
about him for a minute or two with curiosity; then 
he sat down on the wooden bench, leant his back 
against the wall, plunged his hands into his empty 
pockets, and let his chin sink on to his chest. Had he 
known it, that was precisely the attitude adopted by 


142 


MERRY-ANDREW 


nine men out of every ten who find themselves in 
the cells at Night Street. 

Suddenly a man in a cell a little further down the 
passage began to sing. There was no music in the 
song, and no mirth; it was just a drunken wail of a 
music-hall song popular at the moment. There was a 
dreadful sort of energy, born of the lees of alcohol, 
behind the tune. On and on it went, and then the 
man in the next cell to Andrew began to curse the 
singer. At first his curses were mere mutterings, 
but presently they became louder, and Andrew was 
compelled to listen to the filthy outpourings of that 
degraded soul. He felt suddenly sick and faint — • 
partly, of course, because he was beginning to lose 
strength from underfeeding. When Constable Bates 
returned with the lunch-cake and cocoa, Andrew 
thought at first that he would be unable to touch either, 
but at last he made a gallant effort, and the rest was 
easier than he had expected. 

The evening drew on, and gradually the other cells 
filled up. In almost every case it was easy to judge 
that “drunk and disorderly” would be the charge on 
the morrow. Some of Andrew’s companions sang as 
they were conducted to the cells, and some cursed, 
but none was silent. He could hear the shrill shouts 
of women, too, and judged from the sounds that they 
were being taken to cells overhead. 

At last a comparative silence fell upon the corridor, 
and Andrew stretched himself on the hard plank-bed, 
and tried to sleep. He thought that he had been lying 
awake for hours, but in reality he fell asleep within 
the hour. And then came the dream that he never 
forgot as long as he lived. 


MERRY-ANDREW 143 

It began at some cross-roads — deserted cross-roads, 
at dead of night, with a dark, thick wood in the 
back-ground. There was a man on a horse, and 
somehow it happened that this man was dragged from 
his horse by other men and murdered. Andrew wit- 
nessed the whole incident, but was unable to move or 
speak. He realised, as he saw the murderers dive 
into the woods, that he would be suspected of being 
concerned in the affair if he were found there; but 
still he could not move. Presently the police came up 
and arrested him. 

Then the scene changed, and he was brought be- 
fore the magistrates. The Court was quite a small 
one, unimportant, with no power but to commit him 
for trial at the sessions. He listened to the evidence, 
and could say no single word in his own defence. It 
was all terribly unjust, of course, terribly cruel, but 
he was trapped — trapped beyond the hope of escape. 
He heard the chief magistrate commit him for trial 
at the sessions, and then, as he was being taken away 
to the cell, he awoke. 

At first he thought it was all real. He sat upright, 
and felt the wooden bed with his hands, and felt the 
bare brick walls behind him, and the stone floor with 
his feet. Good God! He would be hanged! There 
was no escape! Nobody could save him — not even 
Sylvia ! . . . This awful bewilderment lasted only for 
a minute, however; then he remembered that he was 
merely passing the night in a cell at Night Street. 

Andrew heaved a tremendous sigh of relief, and 
wondered what the time might be. The other prison- 
ers were now fairly quiet, save for a rambling con- 
versation from the cell at the very end of the pas- 


144 


MERRY-ANDREW 


sage in which, though he did not know it, three men 
who had been brought in late were locked up to- 
gether. He peeped through the little aperture into 
the passage. A constable passed, and asked him if 
he wanted anything. Andrew replied that he would 
like to know the time, and the constable told him 
that it was half-past two. Once again Andrew 
stretched himself on the wooden bed — and then came 
the second half of his dream. 

It was now the Assizes. He was in a large Court, 
crowded with people. The Judge was on the Bench. 
There were the barristers in their wigs, there were 
the policemen without their helmets, there were the 
reporters, there were the curious, sensation-loving 
crowd, waiting to hear him condemned to death. From 
his place in the dock he could pick out the faces of 
people he knew. Mr. Stiff key had suddenly taken 
the place of the Judge, and Mr. Glead was the Fore- 
man of the Jury. Mr. Crichton, Frankland, Mr. Soc- 
rates Quain, Mr. James Keep, and Mr. Douglas 
Campbell were also members of the jury, and Mr. 
Foottit was the usher. Mr. Plumbridge, quaintly 
enough, was the leading counsel for the defence; An- 
drew noted that fact with great misgivings. Sylvia 
and her mother were in Court side by side, and Aunt 
Ursula glared at him from a dark corner. Mr. Doubi- 
kin had been given a seat on the Bench, close to the 
Judge, into whose ear he was continually murmuring 
his favourite monosyllable. 

They were all dead against him — he could see that 
at a glance. Everybody believed him guilty, even 
Sylvia. She looked very sad, very sympathetic, but 
very shocked. He could almost hear her saying, “How 


MERRY-ANDREW 145 

could you have done such a dreadful thing, Andrew? 
You will have to be punished for it, just as you always 
used to be punished when you did anything naughty. 
Only this time the punishment will be very awful — 
it will be the last punishment you will ever receive.’ , 

Yes, they were all against him, but the trial had to 
go through to its appointed end. Presently came the 
luncheon interval, and two policemen — Constable 
Bates and the Inspector who had read over the charge 
— took him, as a matter of course, for a walk in the 
fresh air. They led him to a cemetery, which was 
full of flowers and sunlight, and they showed him 
a newly-dug grave, and told Andrew that it was 
meant for him. . . . 

During the afternoon he gave up thinking about 
himself, and his sympathies went out to all the men 
who had stood in a similar position. He knew now 
exactly how it felt to be condemned to be hanged for 
murder — the absolute inevitability of it. The faces all 
hostile, the trapped feeling, the certainty that there 
was no power on earth that could save. He had often 
read quite callously of people being condemned to 
death ; now he knew what it meant, and he wished 
that he had not read the accounts of these trials as a 
mere entertainment, just as one might read a novel. 

Just as the Judge was on the point of pronouncing 
sentence, he woke up, and Constable Bates was stand- 
ing in the doorway, asking him what he would like 
for breakfast. The reality of the two dreams was 
still on him; he could go over them point by point. 
He remembered perfectly well awaking after the first 
dream and asking the constable on duty the time, and 
being told that it was half-past two. Yes, he remem- 


146 MERRY-ANDREW 

bered the minutest details, and he never forgot them 
as long as he lived. He never again read the account 
of a trial for murder without being able to place him- 
self in the position of the person accused. For some 
years he even became a vigorous opponent of capital 
punishment. Later his views became more moderate, 
and he saw that nothing but the fear of a like fate 
for themselves would check those born without the 
sense of humanity from inflicting sudden death upon 
others. 

“Get you anything fer breakfast, sir ?” 

“Thank you. I should like a piece of lunch-cake 
and some cocoa. ,, 

“Sure you won't take anything more substantial, 
sir ?” 

Andrew shivered. He had often heard of those 
about to be hanged eating a substantial breakfast be- 
fore being led to the place of execution. 

“No,” he replied sharply. 

“All right, sir. When you want a wash, there’s 
a basin outside in the passage ’ere.” 

“When it’s unoccupied,” said Andrew, “I should 
very much like a wash.” 

The constable grinned. “It ain’t very often it’s 
occupied, sir. I expect you’ll be able to ’ave it when- 
ever you feel inclined.” 

So Andrew washed himself at the basin in the 
passage, conscious of a pair of bloodshot eyes watch- 
ing him all the time through an aperture. Then he 
returned to his cell, and was once again locked in 
until the hour arrived for him to be taken across the 
yard to the Police Court. 

Constable Bates fetched him about ten o’clock. An- 


MERRY-ANDREW 


147 


drew was allowed to walk across the yard without 
being handcuffed, and remained in the passage outside 
the Court Room instead of being placed in one of 
the little cells attached to the Court. Dishevelled men 
and women, generally alone, sometimes with a com- 
panion, were taken at intervals into the Court, re- 
mained there a few minutes, came out again, and 
were locked up in the cells. At last it was Andrew’s 
turn. 

The smallness of the Court surprised him. The 
room was no bigger than the drawing-room at home. 
It was divided up into numerous pens by wooden par- 
titions. In one pen, which ran the length of the room, 
stood the general public, either to hear the cases against 
their friends and relations, or merely to gratify their 
curiosity and pass away an idle morning. The magis- 
trate, a clean-faced gentleman with a tendency to 
smile which could not always be repressed, sat at the 
other end of the room on a dais, with a desk in front 
of him. To his right was another little pen for the 
use of the police, and then there was a pen for the 
reporters, a pen for the solicitors, a pen for witnesses, 
and, in the centre of the room, facing the magistrate, 
a narrow pen with iron rails for the prisoner. Into 
this, blushing hotly at the publicity of it all, Andrew 
was conducted, Constable Bates taking up a position 
near him. 

The case was very soon stated. It seemed that the 
police had had their eye on Messrs. Foottit and Crich- 
ton for some little time. They had ample evidence that 
Messrs. Foottit and Crichton received sums of money 
in cash to put on horses. They had not even troubled 
to evade the Gaming Act. More than that, they had 


148 


MERRY-ANDREW 


run a lottery in connection with “The Straight Tip.” 
Andrew had been arrested on his own confession that 
he was the Assistant-Editor of the paper, and a docu- 
ment had been found amongst his possessions which 
showed that he was also part proprietor of the paper. 
On the other hand, there was no previous conviction 
against him, he had been associated with Messrs. 
Foottit and Crichton not more than forty-eight hours, 
so far as the police could discover, and had not at- 
tempted to evade arrest. On the contrary, he had 
given the police no trouble whatever. 

Mrs. Doubikin was called to give evidence as to 
the date of Andrew’s arrival in Buckingham Street. 
She protested, with hands upraised, that she had never 
dreamed of such wicked things going on under her 
roof; if she xiad had the slightest suspicion of them, 
it would have been her duty to Mr. Doubikin to turn 
Messrs. Foottit and Crichton into the street at a mo- 
ment’s notice. Mr. Dick had only been with her a few 
nights, and had always behaved as a gentleman, and 
had paid his bill yesterday morning. 

Mr. Doubikin was also called, but, as the magistrate 
could not hear what he said, he presently lost patience 
with the witness and told him to stand down. 

Andrew was asked what he had to say in his defence. 
He thereupon told very quietly the story of his arrival 
in Buckingham Street, his conversation over the break- 
fast-table with Mr. Foottit, of the sale of the shares, 
of his appointment to the position of Assistant-Editor, 
and of his conversation with the constable in the shab- 
by suit and the too-good boots. His innocence was 
perfectly evident to everybody present ; the magistrate, 
acquitting him without a stain on his character, pointed 


MERRY-ANDREW 149 

out that the police had done nothing more than their 
duty in arresting him, and that young men who came 
to London from the country without any previous 
knowledge of the wickedness of the great city could 
not be too careful in the selection of their associates. 
Andrew was then at liberty to leave the Court. 

As he was passing through the hall outside the Court 
to the street he felt a touch at his elbow. Turning 
round, he saw a little man, young, unshaven, rather 
shabbily dressed, with long hair that hung over his 
collar at the back and over his eyes in front. 

“Excuse me,” said the little man. “I was in the 
Court just now. Heard your case. Daresay you 
noticed me in the reporter's box.” 

Andrew was obliged to confess that he had been 
too perturbed to notice anybody. 

“Well, anyhow,” went on the little man, “I was 
there, and I couldn't help trying to get a word with 
you. I know what it’s like to come up from the coun- 
try and try to get your footing in Fleet Street — bad 
enough, God knows, without getting mixed up in a 
rotten business like that. Shall we go and have a 
drink ?” 

Andrew thought of the magistrate's advice about the 
choice of associates, but there was something friendly 
and honest about the little man which appealed to 
him. Besides, he was not quite in the position to 
refuse friendship of any sort. 

“All right,” he replied, and off they went 


CHAPTER XII 


MOST OF WHICH PASSES IN A LOW PUBLIC-HOUSE 
HE little man led the way into the saloon-bar of 



a very dirty public-house, perched himself on 


a high stool, and asked Andrew what he would 


have. 


“A whisky and soda, please,” said Andrew, as care- 
lessly as he could contrive. 

“Any particular brand ?” 

“Oh, I don’t think so, thanks.” 

The little man smiled. He was thinking what a 
feast of jam this tall, fresh-looking young man from 
the country must have proved for Messrs. Crichton 
and Foottit. 

“Take my advice,” he suggested. “Bottle of beer. 
Bread and cheese. Don’t suppose you had a very 
good breakfast, did you?” 

“Rotten,” said Andrew. “By the way,” he went on, 
feeling distinctly better for the refreshment, “did you 
say you were a reporter?” 

“Well, I’m not exactly a reporter. Really a sub- 
editor. Staff of the Lightning News Agency. Ever 
heard of it?” 

Andrew was bound to admit that he never had. 

“No, daresay you haven’t. Sometimes wish I’d 
never heard of it myself. Stick on there. We all do 
stick on there. Don’t know why. Get less money 


150 


MERRY-ANDREW 151 

and more work than any set of men in Fleet Street. 
How some of the men who are married and have 
families live on their screws, can’t imagine. I’m not 
married. Takes me all my time to make ends meet. 
That’s why I do this reporting work in the day-time. 
Bit extra. Besides, it’s all experience. Interesting 
types. Often think I’ll write a novel one of these 
days. Shove ’em all into it.” 

“Were you,” asked Andrew indifferently, “thinking 
of reporting my case?” 

“Good Lord, no! You don’t suppose I’d sell a pal 
for half-a-dollar, do you ? Reminds me of a chestnut. 
Popular in the Street. Ever heard it ? Rich man was 
brought into Court on a charge of a scandalous nature. 
When the trial was over, he leant across to the re- 
porters’ box and placed a shilling on the ledge. ‘Just 
share that amongst you,’ he said, ‘and keep my name 
out of the papers.’ Ever heard it?” 

Andrew laughed at the little story, and felt that 
he was at last in touch with the real Fleet Street. 
They swapped names, and he discovered, rather to his 
surprise, that the little man was called Inchboard. 
There were some Inchboards in his own part of the 
world — rather important folk in the County. 

“Of course, my people have nothing whatever to 
do with me, you know. I’m the disgrace of the fam- 
ily. Tried everything they knew to keep me in the 
straight and narrow path. Not a bit of good. Al- 
ways straying off it. Governor cut me off with a 
shilling eleven times. Then he died. My brother of- 
fered to get me a job in Canada. Wasn’t taking any. 
Not much. Too jolly cold out there. I’d rather stay 
here and be hired out at starvation wages by the Light- 


152 MERRY-ANDREW 

ning News Agency. After all, what more do I want? 
I do as I like when I’m not working. When I am 
working I do pretty much as I like. Don’t let them 
get too much out of me. I’m up to all the tricks, you 
know. Suppose a big message comes in. I get wind 
of it just in time. I’m off to get my supper. Let 
George do it. The boss knows all about it. It isn’t 
so easy to get men on the Lightning News Agency. 
We die. We’re always dying in our office. Fact. 
Man fell down dead only three weeks ago. Have 
another ?” 

“No, thanks. I suppose that man’s place has been 
filled up by now?” 

“No. Not going to be filled up. Chief said he could 
do with one man less. We have to share his work 
between us. What do you think of that? Man drops 
dead, and the Chief saves the salary. Did you think 
of applying for the job?” 

“That was certainly in my mind,” said Andrew. 
“But perhaps I couldn’t do the work?” 

“Do the work?” Mr. Inchboard gave an ironic 
laugh and lit another cigarette. “Do the work? A 
babe in arms could do the work. It doesn’t need 
brains at all. Doesn’t need experience. Doesn’t need 
anything but sheer animal labour. Merely copying 
telegrams on to flimsies. Of course my work is 
rather responsible. Sometimes I handle things of 
national importance. But this chap that died — anybody 
could have done his work. Hard, mind you. Hard, 
muscular work. Driving through flimsies, eighteen 
thick. Sometimes twenty- four. How the man kept 
it up for so many years licks me.” 


MERRY-ANDREW 


153 


“Are you quite sure that they have decided not to 
engage anybody in his place?” 

“They say they won’t, but somebody else may die 
at any moment. If I were you, I’d keep out of it.” 

“I must do something. I’m practically down to my 
last bob. Besides, I want to be a journalist. That’s 
about the only thing I’m suited for. If I don’t do 
that, I shall have to try for an assistant-mastership.” 

Mr. Inchboard whistled. “Bad as that?” 

“Yes. D’you know anything about school-master- 
ing?” 

“Yes. They tried me at that, amongst other things. 
I was fired the first week. A boy wouldn’t behave 
himself at dinner, and I threw a piece of suet pudding 
at him. Hit the matron in the eye. Most unfortunate 
occurrence. Matron took it in bad part, and reported 
me to the Head. Head sent for me. Very much on 
his dignity. Said I had set a bad example to the 
boys. Couldn’t have the masters throwing suet pud- 
ding about. Told me I’d mistaken my vocation. I 
replied that I’d done nothing of the sort. Told him 
I never wanted to be a beastly schoolmaster. Told 
him it was a dog’s life. Head nearly had a fit. Apo- 
plectic. Very dangerous. Got quite purple. Rather 
fascinating to watch. Thought he’d fall down, but he 
didn’t. Gave me a term’s salary, and I came to town 
with it. Who’s your agent ?” 

“Well, I haven’t exactly got an agent. I had a row 
with Plumbridge only yesterday morning. I’m afraid 
he won’t do anything more for me.” 

“Plumbridge ? Biggest bully in the business. 
Threatened to knock him down one day. Fact. 
Squared up to him in his own office. Plumbridge 


154 MERRY-ANDREW 

awfully scared. Ran to the bell and rang it. Clerk 
came in. Saw me dancing round Plumbridge. Fetched 
two more clerks. I just walked out. Undignified, 
scrapping with clerks. Walked out. Went round to 
old McKechnie. Ever heard of him?” 

Andrew said that the name seemed vaguely familiar. 

“Not his real name. Jew. Charming fellow, all 
the same. Always gets you a job of some sort. Never 
asks too many questions. No side. Found me a job 
at once. Sent me off same night. Little school in 
Northumberland. Head confirmed drunkard. Had 
to take entire charge and read prayers. Splendid post. 
Stayed there the whole term. Never expected to stay 
a whole term anywhere.” 

“I shall be awfully glad if you’ll give me the ad- 
dress of this man,” said Andrew. 

Mr. Inchboard called for pencil and paper, and 
wrote rapidly. 

“There you are. McKechnie will jump at you. 
Doesn’t often get an Oxford man and all that. Have 
a shave first. Put on a clean collar. Crack yourself 
up. Let me know how you get on. I’ll keep your 
address. Bound to want a man at our place before 
long. Somebody else sure to die. I’ll wire you. Ex- 
pect a wire at any moment. So long. Glad to have 
met you.” 

“I’m awfully glad to have met you. It was very 
sporting of you to follow me out of the Court and 
cheer me up. I shan’t forget it.” 

They shook hands. 

“That’s all right. Enjoyed hearing you talk im- 
mensely. There won’t be a word of your case in the 
papers, rely on me.” 


MERRY-ANDREW 155 

Mr. Inchboard lighted another cigarette, nodded to 
Andrew, and strolled away along the grimy street 
towards the Court-house. Andrew watched the quaint 
little figure until it disappeared through the huge door- 
way. Then he returned to Buckingham Street, where 
he was received with gurgles of joy by the cheerful 
Jane. Mr. and Mrs. Doubikin were celebrating the 
event in the kitchen. 

On the table in the hall was a letter from Sylvia. 
Andrew took it with him up to his attic. 

“I was awfully glad,” she wrote, “to get your last 
letter, and to hear your really splendid news. Fancy 
your being an Assistant-Editor already, and with a 
salary of more than a hundred a year! It is really 
wonderfully clever of you to have done it, and I 
can’t help boasting a little about you to some of the 
people round here. You know as well as I do they 
all had the impression that you were no good, but 
it has not taken long for you to prove how wrong 
they were. 

“I am sure I should love Mr. Foottit. He must be 
a very clever man to have discovered your talents so 
quickly. One of these days, when you come down 
for a holiday, you must bring him with you. I am 
not so sure about Mr. Crichton, but bring him as 
well if you like. 

“Your rooms sound delightful. How I should love 
to take a little peep at you, but that must wait. You 
are not to do anything rash or impetuous, but just 
work away as hard as you can and make your position 
secure. You are so clever, and your heart is so thor- 
oughly in your work, that success is bound to come. 
It was the beginning that was difficult, wasn’t it ? But 


156 MERRY-ANDREW 

now all that is over, and you have only to go straight 
ahead. But don’t overdo it, dear. Don’t forget that 
your health is very important. Nothing would be any 
good without that, and so you are not to work late 
at night, and you are to get, plenty of exercise be- 
cause you are accustomed to it, and you would miss it 
very badly. 

“Goodbye, dear old boy. Send me the paper every 
week, but don’t trouble to write unless you have plenty 
of time. You are not to bother about me in the least 
— only just to think of your career and your health. 

“P. S. I have seen the new curate from Eastwood. 
He is very short, with a pasty face, turned up nose, 
and sandy hair! So much for the second string to 
my bow !” 

Andrew had not the heart to answer this letter until 
there was something of a cheerful nature to communi- 
cate. Acting on the advice of Mr. Inchboard, he 
shaved, dressed himself as carefully as possible, and 
went off to interview Mr. McKechnie. 


CHAPTER XIII 


YOUNG MR. PETCH DRAWS A PICTURE OF PERFECT BLISS 
AT FLOODINGTON 

M R. McKECHNIE’S office was not nearly such 
an imposing affair as the offices of Messrs. 
Plumbridge, Slice & Co. It was on the first 
floor of a very old-fashioned house in a very old- 
fashioned street, and consisted of two rooms and a 
landing. The principal room was occupied by Mr. 
McKechnie himself ; the other room, at the back, was 
the room in which headmasters inspected the gentle- 
men provided for that purpose by Mr. McKechnie. 
The clerk had a table and a chair on the landing, and 
there were also one or two other chairs to support 
the languid frames of ushers waiting to be inspected. 

Mr. McKechnie’s clerk was not at all a suspicious 
person. On the contrary, he was affability itself, and 
seemed to have been selected for his stature. He was 
well over six feet in height, and broad in proportion. 
He looked something between an ex-prize-fighter and 
an ex-drill-sergeant. Mr. McKechnie could not have 
carried on his business at all without the aid of this 
powerful person, as Andrew had presently to learn. 

The clerk received him with a broad smile, and 
invited him to make himself comfortable on the land- 
ing. Mr. McKechnie was engaged at the moment, but 
he would not be very long. Indeed, the clerk ex- 
157 


158 


MERRY-ANDREW 


pected that Mr. McKechnie would be alone at any 
moment. 

Andrew could hear voices — one loud and rasping, 
and the other a gentle, persuasive, mellow voice with 
a slightly foreign accent. As he waited, the loud voice 
became even louder, and suddenly the door of Mr. 
McKechnie’s room opened, and disclosed Mr. McKech- 
nie’s visitor and Mr. McKechnie himself. Mr. Mc- 
Kechnie was tall and slender, with rather long iron- 
grey hair, a prominent nose, and very brilliant eyes. 
His visitor was a thickset man, between thirty and 
forty years of age, dressed in a shiny blue suit and a 
bowler hat. 

“Good-morning,” said Mr. McKechnie, affably. 

“I tell you,” shouted the thickset individual, “that 
you’re a scoundrel! You’re a swindler! A rascal! 
For two pins I’d !” 

“Good-morning,” said Mr. McKechnie, still affably. 

“For two pins,” continued the visitor, “I’d bash your 
old conk in! Yes, I would, and you jolly well know 
it ! Sending me down to that pigstye of a place, where 
I wasn’t even expected, and making me spend all that 
money on my fare! D’you suppose I was going to 
stop in a low-down kennel like that ? Why, you ought 
to be in gaol ! That’s where you ought to be !” 

“Good-morning,” said Mr. McKechnie, quite 
sweetly. 

The thickset individual raised his fist. Quick as 
lightning, Mr. McKechnie made a sign to the clerk. 
The clerk, who had been on the alert, apparently itch- 
ing for the call to action, suddenly sprang at the 
thickset individual, seized him by the nape of the neck, 
swung him completely round so that he faced towards 


MERRY-ANDREW 


159 

the head of the stairs, gave him one shove, and the 
thickset individual disappeared. There was a slight 
bend in the stairs, but the thickset individual turned 
the corner as neatly as though he had been practising 
the trick for years. Then came the sound of a bump, 
and all was still. 

Mr. McKechnie advanced to the bannisters and 
looked over. “Good-morning,” he said, for the last 
time, and returned to his office with a pleased smile 
and a perfectly unruffled demeanour. The clerk, as 
though nothing at all out of the ordinary had hap- 
pened, introduced Andrew. 

“Certainly, Mr. Dick,” replied Mr. McKechnie. 
“Step in, will you?” 

Andrew stepped into the office, and Mr. McKechnie 
closed the door. His manners were really extremely 
ingratiating, and Andrew was soon chatting away to 
him as though they had known each other for years. 

“I’m very glad that you came to me,” said Mr. 
McKechnie. “There won’t be the slightest difficulty 
about finding you a post for the autumn, Mr. Dick.” 

“But what am I to do until the autumn?” asked 
Andrew, with a very nasty sensation beneath his waist- 
coat. 

“Broke?” suggested Mr. McKechnie with his en- 
trancing smile. 

“Pretty nearly.” 

“Owe a lot of money?” 

“Not a farthing.” 

“Got any people?” 

“No.” 

“Got any money at all?” 

“Something less than a pound.” 


160 


MERRY-ANDREW 


“What are you doing at the present moment, Mr. 
Dick?” 

“Well, I’ve been trying to make a living as a jour- 
nalist.” 

“Very difficult — very difficult indeed. You see, Mr. 
Dick, there’s not much left of the present term. Even 
if I find you an emergency post for the next week or 
two, you will still have to face the prospect of the 
summer holidays. As it happens, there’s a gentleman 
here at the present moment who wants some help dur- 
ing his annual examinations. Would you care to see 
him? It couldn’t do any harm, could it? Yes, why 
not see him?” 

“All right,” said Andrew. 

“Excuse me just one moment.” 

Mr. McKechnie opened another door which led to 
the back-room, passed through it, and closed it care- 
fully behind him. He was absent about two minutes, 
and then reappeared with an even gayer smile than 
usual. 

“Name of Capstick,” he whispered to Andrew. 
“Keeps a school down Croydon way — day-school. 
Rather a rum sort of chap — suffers from lumbago. No 
harm your talking to him.” 

He led Andrew into the back room. The room 
was so dark that at first Andrew could not see any- 
body, but at last he discovered a very stout gentleman 
endeavouring to rise from an old easy-chair in the 
comer. Mr. McKechnie rapidly made the necessary 
introductions, and then left them to it. 

“Excuse me,” panted Mr. Capstick, “but I can’t 
move about very easily because of me lumbago. ’Ave 
you ever ’ad lumbago, Mr. Dick?” 


MERRY-ANDREW 


161 


“Not yet,” said Andrew ; “but I daresay I shall in 
time,” he added kindly. 

“I sincerely 'ope you won't. It's a nasty thing, is 
lumbago. Catches you in the back something awful. 
You wouldn't believe the torture I go through, and 
then I've got all this worry with the school as well!” 

He sank back into the arm-chair, pulled a large 
red handkerchief from his pocket, and mopped his 
brow. Then he stared at Andrew with round fishy 
eyes and waited. 

“I understand that you require some assistance dur- 
ing your annual examinations?” 

“Well, it's like this. At the present moment, I 
'aven’t got anybody at all, and there's thirty boys, and 
it's too much for one man to manage the lot, especially 
when you take into consideration the lumbago. Be- 
sides, it don’t look well, not 'aving an assistant-master. 
The boys get wondering about it, and then they talk to 
their parents, and the parents think I'm doing things 
on the cheap. Why not come down tomorrow morn- 
ing and 'ave a look at us, and a bit of dinner? You 
can get there and back for a shilling, and you'd get 
your dinner for nothing. What do you say?” 

“Supposing that I arranged to help you, Mr. Cap- 
stick, when would you require my services, and what 
would you be prepared to pay me?” 

“Well, what I did last year was this : I got a gentle- 
man to come in just for the time, and I gave 'im all 
his meals and a little instruction in shorthand in re- 
turn for examining the boys. 'E was a policeman, 
but 'e wanted to better 'imself, and so the scheme 
suited us both very well, don’t you see? Now I 
understand from Mr. McKechnie that you’ve had no 


162 


MERRY-ANDREW 


experience as yet in the school-mastering line, so I 
thought to myself it might suit your book to come 
down and ’ave a bit of dinner with us, and let the 
boys see that there’s something doing. Just to satisfy 
them and keep them quiet, and then, if you like our 
ways, no doubt we could fix up for a week on mutual 
terms.” 

Andrew reflected. There was the offer of a week’s 
board and lodging. On the other hand, he would be 
no better off at the end of the week than he was at 
the present moment. The very sight of Mr. Capstick 
was repulsive to him, and he hated the thought of the 
kind of school that Mr. Capstick probably kept. He 
was still turning the matter over in his mind when 
Mr. Capstick leant forward, not without difficulty, and 
said with a cunning leer: 

“There’s just one thing you might bear in mind, 
Mr. Dick. I could write you a splendid testimonial to 
show to any other master. You wouldn’t find me spar- 
ing about that. I know just how to pile it on, and I 
could write you a testimonial that would be worth at 
least a tenner to you. All signed and dated and cor- 
rect. Now, what do you say to that?” 

This decided the matter. The magistrate had been 
right — he must be careful in his choice of companions, 
and he felt quite sure that the magistrate would not 
have approved of Mr. Capstick. 

“Thank you,” he said rising, “but I am afraid it will 
hardly be worth my while. I am very much obliged 
to you, all the same, and I hope your lumbago will 
soon be better.” 

With that he returned to Mr. McKechnie’s office. 


MERRY-ANDREW 


163 


“Well?” asked the agent “Have you fixed things 
up ? Are you going to help him ?” 

“I think not,” said Andrew. 

“Of course not,” replied Mr. McKechnie, promptly. 
“I knew you wouldn’t. I felt sure you wouldn’t. 
You’re not the style of man at all for an old beast 
of that sort. I just wanted to see what you’d say. 
Now, come along here to-morrow morning at eleven 
o’clock, and I’ll see what I can do for you. Don’t 
be down-hearted. We shall soon have you properly 
fixed up.” 

Andrew duly returned to Mr. McKechnie’s office on 
the following morning at eleven o’clock, and the morn- 
ing after that, and the morning after that. On the 
fifth day, when his capital was reduced to three shill- 
ings, Mr. McKechnie received him with an enthusiasm 
that almost amounted to a boyish glee. 

“The very thing at last!” he cried, shaking Andrew 
warmly by the hand and patting him on the back at 
the same time. “Nothing could have been better! 
I’ve got a man here whose father keeps a day-school 
at Floodington. You know the type of school — sons 
of small tradesmen and that sort of thing. The son’s 
been to Oxford, and wants to launch out on his own a 
bit in a rather better-class way. Going to live at home, 
you know, and help his father part of the time, and 
run a little school of his own about a mile off for the 
sons of gentlefolk. He wants a young man — a Uni- 
versity man for choice — to help him with his new 
venture, and to do a little work for the father as well. 
I can fix you up if you like. What’s the lowest you’ll 
take? He can’t afford to pay much, you know, just 
at first.” 


MERRY-ANDREW 


164 

“What do you think I ought to ask ?” 

“Ask fifty. He’ll offer thirty. Then we’ll split the 
difference and take forty. Oh, the father wants good 
French. Is your French good?” 

“Rotten,” said Andrew. 

“Never mind. I shall tell him we can offer good 
French.” 

“But I know hardly any French at all,” protested 
Andrew. “They don’t teach French at Oxford. I 
haven’t opened a French book since I left school, and 
there we only did it in the lower forms, and in a desul- 
tory kind of way.” 

“Extraordinary!” said Mr. McKechnie. “Every- 
body wants French, but the public schools and the 
universities don’t teach it. Why? Too proud? Too 
insular? I give it up. Now I’ll let you into a little 
professional secret. Did you see that young fellow 
out there on the landing — little black moustache, black 
hair cut very short, clothes that don’t fit him, general 
air of apology for being alive?” 

“Yes, I saw him.” 

“What did he look like to you?” 

“To tell the truth, he looked like a waiter out for 
the day.” 

“That’s exactly what he is,” said Mr. McKechnie, 
smiling happily. “He’s a waiter in a small French 
restaurant where I sometimes go for my lunch. One 
day I began chatting to him, and discovered that he 
was sick of being a waiter. He wanted to get on in 
the world — in other words, he was willing to take less 
money if he could live a more gentlemanly life. And 
then it suddenly occurred to me — why shouldn’t I 
get him a job as French master in a school? Who’s 


MERRY-ANDREW 


165 


to know that he's ever been a waiter? I got a testi- 
monial from his parish priest at home, and told him 
to buy a tweed suit, and there he is ! I shall get him 
twenty pounds a year to start with, and everything 
found. That’s what we have to do because your public 
schools and universities won’t condescend to teach men 
French. All the same, you’ll have to promise good 
French if you want to get this job with Mr. Petch at 
Floodington.” 

“What’s the good of that? They’d find me out the 
first day.” 

“Not at all, my dear boy. All you have to do is to 
keep one lesson ahead of your class the whole time. 
Learn up the stuff overnight, and teach it to ’em the 
next day. That’s the way. Lots of men do that. 
Now I’ll just speak to young Mr. Petch.” 

He dived into the inner room, and dived out again ; 
dived in again with Andrew at his heels, and dived out 
again leaving Andrew and young Mr. Petch together. 

Young Mr. Petch greeted Andrew with a cordial 
smile and an outstretched hand. His manner was 
really quite engaging. He was a little fellow, with 
fair hair and blue eyes, and gave Andrew the impres- 
sion of overweening modesty. Young Mr. Petch, by 
his general demeanour, conveyed the idea that he con- 
sidered it rather an impertinence on his part to assume 
the role of an employer, and he combined with that 
attitude a general air of deprecating jollity, as who 
should say, “Here’s a lark ! Here are you and I, both 
jolly good sports, not caring a hang for anything 
serious, arranging to run a school of our own, and 
have a ripping time doing it! What a spree! We 
shall never stop laughing!” 


166 MERRY-ANDREW 

This was exactly the sort of suggestion calculated 
to appeal to Andrew. He was getting so very tired 
of living in an utterly strange world, and meeting peo- 
ple who knew nothing whatever of his world, and had 
not an idea in common with him, that he was almost 
ready to embrace young Mr. Fetch because he was 
an Oxford man, and knew Andrew’s type, and the 
kind of life to which Andrew had been accustomed. 
He could not quite picture Mr. Petch in the typical 
undergraduate’s room, peopled with typical under- 
graduates, but there were all sorts at Oxford, and 
Mr. Petch could not very well have spent three years 
there without learning to look at the world, now and 
again, through Oxford glasses. 

They exchanged the usual data as to names of col- 
leges, and the years when they went up and came 
down, and then young Mr. Petch drew a little nearer 
to business. 

“This new school,” he said, “is going to be quite my 
own little affair. It will all be great fun. You and 
I would run it together. We shouldn’t have very 
much to do with my pater’s school. I have already 
booked about a dozen pupils — all decent little chaps, 
the sons of rich people. You see, as they all live 
at home, the work is over about four o’clock in the 
afternoon, and then you would be free to read, or 
write, or go to the theatre, or do anything you liked. 
If you are fond of the theatre, we get the best of 
everything at Floodington, as you probably know. 
I think Mr. McKechnie mentioned that you were fond' 
of writing. Well, it so happens that there is a little 
sitting-room in our house which nobody uses. You 
could make it your own den, and then nobody would 


MERRY-ANDREW 167 

bother you at all, and you could have all your evenings 
for writing.” 

“It sounds just the very thing,” said Andrew, and 
he meant it. He was really taking quite a fancy to 
young Mr. Petch, and young Mr. Petch, noting that 
fact, mentally knocked another ten pounds a year off 
Andrew's salary. 

“Well,” said young Mr. Petch, “I don’t mind telling 
you quite frankly, Mr. Dick, that I like you, and I 
think we should get on famously together. I am sure 
we should have no end of a time. The only thing 
is about this beastly question of salary. I hate men- 
tioning it, but it’s got to be done. You must bear 
in mind that my school is still in its infancy.” (He 
might have added, with equal truth, that it was an 
infants’ school.) “If it succeeds, and you care to 
stay with me, of course I should be delighted to in- 
crease your salary in proportion. In the meantime, 
what is the very least that you would come for, Mr. 
Dick?” 

“Well,” replied Andrew, “I thought fifty pounds 
a year would be somewhere near the mark.” 

Young Mr. Petch looked quite shocked. “Fifty 
pounds a year !” he exclaimed. “Why, I’ve been work- 
ing for my pater for five years, and he doesn’t pay 
me fifty pounds a year even now. Of course he has 
to keep me, just as he would have to keep you, and 
I reckon that as being worth a hundred a year.” 

“What salary had you got in your mind?” asked 
Andrew. 

“To be quite frank,” said young Mr. Petch, “my 
pater told me to offer mutual terms, which means, of 
course, that you give your services in exchange for 


MERRY-ANDREW 


168 

your board and lodging. But I don’t expect to get 
an Oxford man on mutual terms; that would be 
ridiculous!” Here Mr. Petch laughed heartily. “Oh, 
yes, that would be too ridiculous. A man must have 
some pocket-money if he is going to have a good time 
at Floodington. You can’t go to theatres without 
spending money. Now, suppose we say twenty pounds 
a year to begin with ? How would that suit you ? Bear 
in mind, please, that the school is only in its in- 
fancy.” 

A bright idea occurred to Andrew. What was Mr. 
McKechnie doing all this time ? Why should that man 
of genius languish alone in the next room? If Mr. 
McKechnie was going to draw a commission, why 
should he not work for it? After all, the greater the 
amount that could be extracted from Mr. Petch, the 
higher would be Mr. McKechnie’s commission. 

“If you will excuse me a moment,” he said, “I should 
just like to speak to Mr. McKechnie.” 

“Certainly,” said young Mr. Petch. “By all means.” 

Andrew returned to the office, and began to tell Mr. 
McKechnie what had passed, but the latter quickly 
stopped him. 

“I know ! Matter of money. Leave it to me !” 

And with that he dived into the inner room, and 
was gone about two minutes. Then he returned, ush- 
ering in young Mr. Petch, who again shook Andrew 
by the hand, and told him that he should look forward 
with eagerness to the twentieth of September, when 
the fun would begin in real earnest. Evidently, it 
was all arranged. 

As soon as young Mr. Petch had gone, Mr. McKech- 
nie told Andrew that he had fixed him up at the rate 


MERRY-ANDREW 169 

of ten pounds for the term, with full board and lodg- 
ing, and the use of the private sitting-room in the 
evenings. The agent’s fee would be two guineas, so 
that Andrew would have nearly eight pounds to squan- 
der on riotous living in the gay northern city of Flood- 
ington. In the meantime, he had to keep himself some- 
where and somehow for nearly two months. 

As he passed out of Mr. McKechnie’s office, the stal- 
wart clerk drew himself to his full height, put his 
heels together, and gravely saluted. Obviously, this 
handsome leave-taking could not be repaid with less 
than a shilling. 

Slowly and thoughtfully, Andrew descended the 
stairs, turning a two-shilling piece over and over in 
his pocket as he went. He was not much better at 
arithmetic than at French, but sixty days on two 
shillings seemed to work out at something less than 
a halfpenny a day. 
























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BOOK II 


CHAPTER I 

DEPICTS ANDREW IN THE BOSOM OF THE PETCH FAMILY 

I T was a pale, attenuated, very much older and 
wiser Andrew who walked up to the booking- 
office at Euston on the morning of the twentieth 
of September, valise in hand, and bought himself a 
third-class single ticket to Floodington. He knew to 
a halfpenny what the ticket was going to cost him, and 
he had the exact amount ready in his hand. If a 
shilling had slipped through a hole in his pocket on 
the way to the station, he would not have been able 
to keep faith with Mr. Petch; he had run things as 
fine as that. 

It may be urged by those who have wisdom in such 
matters that he could have walked into the nearest 
pawnbroker's, opened his valise, and raised a sovereign 
or so without much difficulty on one of his spare 
suits. But Andrew knew more about the interior of 
that valise than anybody else — except, perhaps, Mrs. 
Doubikin. Mrs. Doubikin, indeed, had continued to do 
her duty by Mr. Doubikin so thoroughly that that 
gentleman was by this time pretty well equipped for a 
trip to Monte Carlo or a tour round the world. Dur- 
ing the last two months he had acquired, with the 
help of his faithful wife, a very nice leather trunk, 
a solid leather suit-case, a leather hat-box containing 
171 


172 MERRY-ANDREW 

a nearly new top-hat, a morning coat and vest, with 
fancy trouserings all complete, two lounge suits, a 
dress suit, half-a-dozen dress shirts, three pairs of 
boots in good repair, a gold-mounted walking-stick, a 
watch and chain, and a large assortment of silk ties. 

In return for these much-disparaged articles, Mrs. 
Doubikin, out of the kindness of her maternal heart, 
had allowed Andrew to go on sleeping in the attic 
on the fourth floor, and had provided him with break- 
fast each morning. The shilling breakfast always 
seemed to Andrew a horrible extravagance, but it was, 
as we have seen, part and parcel of the contract with 
Mrs. Doubikin, and so he was obliged to take it. But 
he had grown cunning in the matter. He had discov- 
ered that by coming down rather late he had the break- 
fast-room to himself. Mrs. Doubikin was not the per- 
son to leave a loaf standing unprotected on the table, 
or even a pat of butter. Andrew’s breakfast was duly 
served out to him, and the rest of the table was bare 
of everything save cups and saucers, plates and dishes, 
knives and forks, which had been used by the other 
lodgers. Andrew, therefore, robbed nobody but him- 
self when he adroitly slipped half his breakfast each 
morning into an envelope, and smuggled it upstairs to 
his attic for consumption later in the day — say about 
supper-time. In this way, he managed to provide him- 
self with his two chief meals each day. For the third 
meal, he relied, of course, on his old friend the penny 
piece of lunch-cake. A somewhat meagre diet, in- 
deed, for a young man of his years, who had been 
accustomed all his life to a generous supply of good 
food, but he was not taking very much exercise this 
summer, and so he managed to pull through. 


MERRY-ANDREW 


173 


Two strokes of luck had come his way. He had 
sold a personal paragraph concerning some Oxford 
celebrity, who had sprained his ankle in the Alps, to 
the “Evening Planet,” and had received, on calling at 
the office and requesting payment, the sum of half-a- 
crown. Thus encouraged, he had bombarded the 
“Evening Planet” with personal paragraphs about 
everybody in Oxford, great or small, but, unfortu- 
nately for Andrew, these dignitaries steadily refused 
to sprain their ankles in the Alps, and so the Editor 
of the “Evening Planet” took no interest in them. 
Andrew’s half-crown went in stationery — not in 
stamps, because he used to walk to the office with his 
paragraphs and drop them into the box. 

The other stroke of luck was a real stroke of luck. 
One afternoon he had met Mr. Inchboard in the 
Strand, and had told him of his success with Mr. 
McKechnie, and his destination on the twentieth of 
September. 

“Doing anything in the meantime?” asked Inch- 
board. 

“Not very much.” 

“Well, take this card.” He pulled a soiled visiting- 
card out of his waistcoat pocket and scribbled on it, 
using Andrew’s back as a writing-desk to the incon- 
venience and annoyance of various pedestrians. 
“That’s the address. Bound and Micklethwaite. 
Quite decent chaps. Starting a weekly paper. ‘The 
Rag-Bag.’ Not much money. Plenty of push. Ex- 
perienced. Printers standing in. Tell ’em you can 
write anything. Have a drink?” 

“No, thanks, I don’t think I will. Could I go round 
there now?” 


174 MERRY-ANDREW 

“Certainly. Off you pop. Plenty of cheek. Don’t 
tell ’em you’re a new hand. Offer to interview some- 
body. Smile. Be gay. Dash. Dash in and dash out. 
Be in a hurry. Full of work. Name your price. 
Guinea a column. Take ten bob. Off with you. Good 
luck.” 

Andrew had thereupon gone straight away to the 
offices of “The Rag-Bag,” and, by virtue of Mr. Inch- 
board’s card, secured an interview with Messrs. Bound 
and Micklethwaite. Bound was a thin young man of 
medium height, with a great deal of fair, wavy hair, 
and a certain ironic humour. Micklethwaite was a 
tall, broad-shouldered, fair-haired, blue-eyed person, 
who looked as though he knew nothing whatever about 
journalism, but had been at the game since the age of 
fifteen. Bound did most of the talking; Mickle- 
thwaite seemed rather bored until it came to the ques- 
tion of price, and then he suddenly woke up. 

“Yes,” said Mr. Bound. “There’s plenty of scope 
for smart writing on this paper. We’re going to make 
'The Rag-Bag’ the cleverest and brightest weekly 
paper in the kingdom. We don’t want to write it all 
ourselves; in fact, we haven’t the time to write it all 
ourselves. If you can make good with us, Mr. Dick, 
there’s no reason why you shouldn’t draw quite a nice 
little income out of this paper.” 

Andrew’s tired heart was still capable of something 
faintly resembling a leap. The faithful servant gave 
that little imitation now. If he could earn even one 
pound a week out of 'The Rag-Bag,’ he might not 
have to go to Floodington after all. Despite young 
Mr. Petch’s assurances, he had never been able to 
persuade himself that Floodington was going to be 


MERRY-ANDREW 


175 

such extremely jolly fun. He had misgivings about 
Floodington. 

“I can write anything you like/’ he said, bearing 
in mind Mr. Inchboard’s excellent advice. “Just: give 
me a hint as to the kind of thing and the length, and 
I’ll let you have it in the morning.” 

“Well,” replied Mr. Bound, “I don’t as a rule be- 
lieve in feeding contributors with ideas; we expect 
our contributors to feed us. But I’ll give you one idea 
that may be useful. There’s an exceedingly funny 
chap performing just now at the Roundabout. He 
comes on as a tramp, and rides round the stage on a 
bicycle, and keeps falling off. Every time he falls off 
he pulls off a collar, and has another clean collar 
underneath. Then he takes a little brush out of his 
pocket and dusts himself down. It’s the funniest turn 
I’ve ever seen. Now, if you can get hold of that chap, 
and have a talk with him, and find out exactly what 
he’s like in private life, and how he got the idea of 
doing this turn, and all that sort of thing, we could 
use it in our first number.” 

“Right you are. By the way, what do you pay per 
column ?” 

“You can safely leave that to us,” put in Mr. 
Mickleth waite. “You bring us a good story, and you 
won’t find us mean.” 

• “All right,” said Andrew, and he shot out of the of- 
fice as though he had appointments with every Editor in 
Fleet Street. 

That night he spent three hours with the comedian 
at the Roundabout — two hours and forty minutes in 
the dressing-room, and twenty minutes on the stage. 
The comedian was a helpful fellow, and Andrew 


176 MERRY-ANDREW 

returned to Buckingham Street full of copy. He wrote 
the interview that night before going to bed, and took 
it down to the offices of “The Rag-Bag” next morning. 

Mr. Bound read it through, and tossed it across to 
Mr. Micklethwaite. Mr. Micklethwaite read it 
through, looked at Mr. Bound, and then rang a bell. 
The bell was answered by a small boy. 

“Take that round to the printer,” said Mr. Mickle- 
thwaite, “and tell him to get it into type as soon as 
possible. . . . You’ve got just the touch we want, 
Mr. Dick. It might be worth your while to call in 
here every day and submit a list of ideas.” 

“Good ideas,” added Mr. Bound. 

Andrew walked away on feet that were really light 
this time. Nothing quite so quick had ever happened 
to him before. In less than twenty-four hours he had 
made the acquaintance of these two young Editors, he 
had spent a whole evening in the company of the most 
successful music-hall comedian of the day, had written 
an interview which would run to about two and a half 
columns, had got it accepted, had seen it sent to the 
printer, and had been told to call at the office every 
day with ideas. If that did not mean success, then 
he would despair of conquering Fleet Street. 

When he called next day, Messrs. Bound and 
Micklethwaite were quite cordial, but they did not care 
for any of his ideas. When he called the next day, 
they were not quite so cordial, nor were they more 
impressed by any of his ideas. This went on for 
about a fortnight. In the meantime, the first num- 
ber of “The Rag-Bag” had appeared, and Andrew’s 
interview had nearly a page to itself. He learnt from 
Mr. Micklethwaite that payments for editorial matter 


MERRY-ANDREW 177 

were made monthly, and he thought it better not to 
ask for cash payment. For some unexplained reason, 
Messrs. Bound and Micklethwaite lost interest in him 
from this moment, and the day came when they were 
too busy to see him at all. In point of fact, the 
article in the first number was his sole contribution 
to “The Rag-Bag.” He received twenty-five shillings 
for it, but that was not until he had left London and 
journeyed up to the gay northern city of Floodington. 

Rain was falling steadily when Andrew reached 
Floodington. Young Mr. Petch had expressed in a 
letter the fervent hope that he would be able to meet 
Andrew at the station, but this passionate desire had 
evidently been frustrated. After making several in- 
quiries about trams, and receiving brusque replies in 
an accent that was strongly reminiscent of young Mr. 
Petch, Andrew at last found himself set down in 
front of a largish house of dark colour standing a few 
yards back from the road. Houses of precisely simi- 
lar size and design flanked the educational emporium 
of the elder Mr. Petch. A few sooty bushes were 
leading a joyless existence in a small patch of ground 
that would probably have been described in an auc- 
tioneer’s catalogue as the front garden. 

Andrew climbed the steps and rang the bell. The 
door was opened by a young woman who wore an 
apron but no cap. She was quite a good-looking young 
woman, and the twinkle in her eye somewhat reas- 
sured Andrew. It was evident that a sense of the 
humour of things could survive even in so black and 
busy a city as Floodington. 


178 


MERRY-ANDREW 


“Please step in,” said the young woman. “It’s Mr. 
Dick, isn’t it?” 

Andrew bowed, smiled, and stepped in. 

“I’ll tell my brother you’ve arrived. He’s upstairs, 
shaving. He spends most of his spare time shaving, 
but for mercy’s sake don’t tell him I said so.” 

She conducted Andrew into a sort of living-room, 
and bade him be seated. There were two children 
in this room, a boy and a girl. The boy was a little 
sturdy fellow, a small copy of young Mr. Petch. 
He had very bright eyes, and a very inquisitive, not 
to say cheeky, manner. His name was Edgar, and he 
answered to the euphonious contraction of Eddie. The 
girl was two or three years younger, and also had 
bright eyes and an inquisitive, not to say cheeky, man- 
ner. They stared at Andrew for nearly a minute in 
silence. Then the little girl giggled, whereupon Eddie 
dealt her a sharp blow with his fist. This was 
promptly returned by Miss Bessie, and the young peo- 
ple were soon engaged in the pleasant recreation of 
punching, scratching, and hair pulling, eventually fall- 
ing to the floor and continuing the game with zest 
under the table. 

Suddenly there came a footstep in the hall, and at 
that sound the combat immediately ceased, the chil- 
dren picked themselves up, seized each a book, and 
were busily reading when young Mr. Petch, known 
to the domestic circle as Herbert, entered the room. 
It was clear to Andrew that Herbert Petch held a 
position of authority over his brothers and sisters. 

“Hullo,” said Herbert, seizing Andrew’s hand, and 
giving it a hearty northern grip. “Sorry I couldn’t 
get down to the station, old fellow, but I was delayed 


MERRY-ANDREW 


179 


at the last moment. Come upstairs and I’ll show you 
our room.” 

Andrew followed him upstairs, wondering whether 
he had been mistaken, or whether Mr. Herbert Petch 
had really made use of the expression, “our room.” 
When they reached the first-floor landing, Herbert 
went on tiptoe past a certain door, and indicated to 
Andrew, by laying his finger upon his lips, the necessity 
for silence. 

“That’s my father’s room,” he explained, as they 
climbed to the second floor. “He can’t stand any 
noise. You must be very careful about that.” 

They climbed higher and higher, and at last reached 
the top of the house. Herbert Petch led the way into a 
fairly large room. The place of honour in this room 
was occupied by a double bed of considerable size. 
Andrew wondered, for a single horrible instant, 
whether he was expected to sleep with young Mr. 
Petch. But then he caught sight of a small camp 
bed in the corner, and told himself that he had 
wronged the good Herbert. It was true that Herbert 
was a quite small man, whereas he, Andrew, was a 
tall man; still, it was decidedly unselfish of Herbert 
to condemn himself, for a long term of fifteen weeks, 
to a camp-bed in the corner of the room. 

“This is our room,” said Herbert. “Nice room, 
isn’t it?” 

“Very nice,” Andrew agreed. 

“That’s your bed,” said Herbert, pointing to the 
camp-bed in the corner. “And this,” he continued 
cheerfully, pointing to the large bed in the centre, 
“is mine.” 

“I see,” said Andrew, much too taken aback by the 


180 MERRY-ANDREW 

colossal impudence of the arrangement to make any 
protest. 

"I’m rather particular about my possessions/’ ex- 
plained Herbert, "so we may as well have a clear 
understanding from the outset. I’ll use the dressing- 
table, because I must have a good place for shaving, 
and I’ll get them to put a little glass for you over 
the mantelpiece. I don’t suppose you have to shave 
as much as I do, so you can easily manage without a 
dressing-table. Now about your things. I see that 
you’ve only brought one suit-case. Is your other lug- 
gage being sent on?” 

"Yes,” lied Andrew. "I’m having it forwarded 
from town by direct delivery. I hope it won’t go 
wrong.” 

"I hope so, too,” said Herbert Petch, regarding 
Andrew searchingly. "You were very nicely dressed 
when I saw you in London; that was one of the rea- 
sons why I made up my mind to engage you. In a 
school of the character that I am starting, it is very 
important that the masters should be well-dressed.” 

"Yes,” agreed Andrew, eyeing young Mr. Petch’s 
equipment of reach-me-downs. "I can quite under- 
stand that.” 

"Well,” continued the bright and breezy Herbert, 
"of course there is no room in the wardrobe because 
I’ve got such an awful lot of things, but I’ve cleared 
the two pegs behind the door for you, and the bottom 
drawer in that chest of drawers. And now we may 
as well go down and have some tea. I’ll send young 
Eddie up with your bag.” 

They descended to the living-room, again passing 
the mysterious door on the first floor on tiptoe. The 


MERRY-ANDREW 181 

living-room was now fairly full of people. At one 
end of the table sat Mrs. Petch, a motherly soul, with 
an open, pleasant countenance. On either side of 
her sat Bessie and Eddie. Next to Bessie came Pattie, 
the girl with the twinkling eyes who had opened the 
door to Andrew. The chair next to Pattie was vacant, 
and Andrew presently found himself seated in it. Mr. 
Herbert Petch took the end of the table facing his 
mother. On his right was Mr. Springbelt, the other 
assistant-master. Next to Mr. Springbelt was Charlie 
Petch, a fleshy, fair-haired youth of about twenty, and 
between Charlie and Eddie sat Lucy, a girl of about 
eighteen, with a somewhat superior manner due to 
the fact that she had once been called the beauty of the 
family, and was taking lessons in drawing and water- 
colour painting at the Floodington Technical Institute. 

Andrew had now plenty of opportunity for culti- 
vating his gift of observation. The whole atmosphere 
of the house, the types around him, the method of 
conducting the meal — everything was almost as 
strange to him as though he had been suddenly 
planted down in a foreign country. Two large 
plates of thick bread-and-butter occupied the centre 
of the table. There were no additions of any sort 
to the meal, save that one boiled egg was presently 
brought in from the kitchen by Pattie and placed in 
front of Mr. Herbert Petch. This mark of favour, 
Andrew learned later, was due to the fact that Mr. 
Herbert Petch was reading for Ordination, and had to 
keep up his strength. The rest of the party con- 
tented themselves with the thick bread-and-butter, 
whilst cups of tea were poured out by Mrs. Petch, 
and passed from hand to hand around the table. 


182 MERRY-ANDREW 

Andrew was acutely conscious of three things. The 
first was the extraordinary terrorism exercised by 
Herbert Petch over the whole party ; the second was a 
stream of furtive glances that kept coming his way 
from Miss Lucy’s side of the table; and the third 
was the very peculiar manner of Mr. Springbelt. 

This unfortunate gentleman was extremely thin, 
very nearly bald, and so nervous that every movement 
resolved itself into a kind of spasmodic twitch. An- 
drew found himself gazing at Mr. Springbelt as one 
fascinated. If Mr. Springbelt wished to raise his cup, 
he performed the act in a series of twitches that 
threatened to send the tea flying in all directions. If 
he wished to bite a piece of bread-and-butter, it cost 
him quite four distinct movements to get the bread- 
and-butter up to his mouth. If he wished to make an 
observation, then the twitches became fast and furious. 
Every muscle in his body seemed to be set a-twitching ; 
his eyes twitched, and his head twitched, and his 
mouth twitched, and his shoulders twitched, his elbows 
wagged to and fro like the wings of a frightened 
duck, and one could hear his knees and his feet knock- 
ing together under the table. 

The Petch family seemed to think nothing at all of 
this extraordinary performance. They went on with 
their tea as though it was the most natural thing in 
the world for a human being to be twitching himself 
to bits before their very eyes. Mr. Springbelt had 
another peculiarity. It seemed utterly impossible for 
him to look anybody straight in the face. He would 
half cock his head in the direction of the person 
addressed, shoot one fishy eyeball at them from the 
extreme corner of the socket, and then rapidly twitch 


MERRY-ANDREW 


183 


it away again, finally addressing the remark to the 
table-cloth. Add to these individualisms a voice of 
practically unlimited register, but utterly beyond con- 
trol, so that even a very short sentence resolved itself 
into a sort of chromatic scale, and it is obvious that 
the senior assistant-master of Mr. Petch’s educational 
emporium constituted in himself a standing advertise- 
ment for the school. 

The conversation at tea-time, except for Mr. Spring- 
belt’s occasional interruptions, was carried on entirely 
by Herbert Petch and Andrew. Herbert Petch was 
saving time by running through the programme for 
next day and practically every day. 

“We get up at half-past seven,” he explained, “and 
breakfast is at eight. At a quarter to nine the boys 
begin to arrive, and Mr. Petch would like you to be 
in the playground with them to see that they don’t 
fight or break any windows. If the weather is cold, 
Mr. Springbelt generally organises a jolly game of 
‘Prisoner’s Base/ don’t you, Mr. Springbelt?” 

Mr. Springbelt, in the course of the next minute 
or two, contrived to say that he did. Then, quite 
overcome by the exertion of this effort, he subsided 
into his chair again, and went on juggling with the 
tea and bread-and-butter. 

“At nine o’clock,” continued Herbert Petch, “my 
father comes downstairs, and all the boys must be in 
their places ready for prayers. After prayers, the 
names are called over, and any boys who have misbe- 
haved themselves on the previous day are caned. Then 
school begins in real earnest. You will take a Scrip- 
ture class until ten o’clock. You must be very careful 
to avoid the New Testament because at least half of 


184 


MERRY-ANDREW 


our pupils are members of Jewish families. At ten 
o’clock you will walk up the road to my school, which 
is about a mile away. You ought to be there at a 
quarter past ten sharp. You will then take the lower 
form in reading or writing until eleven o’clock. At 
eleven o’clock you will take all the boys from my 
school to a piece of waste ground near by, and keep 
them happy and amused until half-past eleven. I 
should like you to think out some nice games suitable 
for little boys of about seven years of age. As this 
is the hour when parents are likely to be about, I hope 
you will be at your gayest and j oiliest with the little 
lads. 

“At half-past eleven you bring the boys back to the 
schoolroom, and take the lower form again until a 
quarter past twelve. The boys then go home to their 
dinner, and I am sure you will not mind taking charge 
of any who happen to be going your way if their 
nurses cannot come for them. We have dinner here 
at a quarter to one; that is the principal meal of the 
day, so we all make the most of it, don’t we, Mr. 
Springbelt ?” 

Mr. Springbelt, recognising this as a joke, made a 
horrible attempt to laugh, which brought out beads 
of perspiration on his abnormally high forehead. 
After that he poured a little tea down the front of his 
waistcoat, and seemed much refreshed. 

“School begins again,” went on Herbert Petch, who 
seemed to take a kind of fiendish glee in detailing the 
duties that would fall to the new usher, “at two 
o’clock. As I shall not require your services at my 
school in the afternoon, you will remain here and 
assist my father. On two afternoons a week he wishes 


MERRY-ANDREW 185 

you to deliver a lecture to the greater part of the 
school on English History. On another afternoon you 
will lecture on Geography. On a fourth afternoon 
Mr. Springbelt lectures on Chemistry, with practical 
experiments. As the boys are apt to become rather 
excited over this lecture, you will remain in the room 
and keep strict order. 

“School ends at half-past four each afternoon, and 
you will then, as long as the days are light enough, 
accompany the boys to the football field, and join with 
them in a rattling good game. After that comes tea, 
and the remainder of the day will be your own. We 
take supper in this room at eight-thirty, after which 
either my father or I read prayers, and then we go 
to bed. Now, if you are ready, I will show you your 
little sitting-room. You have prepared the little 
sitting-room upstairs for Mr. Dick, have you not, 
Pattie ?” 

“Yes, Herbert,” said Pattie meekly. 

“Then come along, Mr. Dick.” 

He led the way upstairs once again, and opened a 
door facing the head of the stairs. Andrew had not 
expected a spacious apartment, but he could not help 
being surprised at the smallness of the room now 
shown to him by the young Mr. Petch. It was so 
small that it was difficult for them both to stand in it 
at the same time. Some extremely adroit person had 
managed to get a chair into it, and a tiny table, but 
that was all the furniture it could hold. Still, it was 
better than no room at all, and he already looked 
forward eagerly to the hours that he would spend there 
with his pens, ink, and paper. 


CHAPTER II 


YOUNG MR. PETCH, HAVING OFFERED UP PRAYER, GETS 
INTO BED WITH HIS CLOTHES ON 

T about seven o’clock that same evening, young 



Mr. Petch having decided to do an hour’s 


-*• reading before dinner, Andrew was free to 
retire to his little den to write to Sylvia. 

“I warned you,” he wrote, “that I should be making 
a change in my address, but I think you will be sur- 
prised to find that I have left London altogether for 
the time being. I may as well make a clean breast of 
it, and confess that London was a little too much for 
me. My berth on the 'Straight Tip’ only lasted about 
forty-eight hours or so. I never received a single half- 
penny in salary, and Mr. Foottit, who turned out to 
be a thorough rascal, did me out of ten pounds into the 
bargain. I had a little success with a new paper called 
'The Rag-Bag,’ and they printed an interview I wrote 
for their first number, but I have not yet been paid 
for it. Of course, I shall be paid for it, but I do wish 
Editors would be a little more prompt in these mat- 
ters. It is all very well for the chaps who have got a 
good connection, and money coming in all the time, 
but when you are beginning it makes it quite impos- 
sible if you have to wait for the cheques. If I had 
only had a little more capital, I feel sure that I could 
have hung on, and got my footing; however, it’s no 


186 


MERRY-ANDREW 187 

use talking about that now. Some day I may go back 
and have another shot ; in the meantime, I have taken 
a post as assistant-master in this school, and here I 
shall be till Christmas. 

“It is not a very swagger sort of school, and my 
salary is not exactly enormous, but it means board 
and lodging, and I shall have time in the evenings to 
write my articles and stories, so that, on the whole, 
the arrangement is not a bad one. I hope you won’t 
be too ashamed of me for having failed in my first 
attack on London. Some day I will give you all the 
details, and you will see that I was up against a pretty 
stiff job. I am not going to make excuses for myself ; 
I suppose there is something in me which makes for 
failure. 

“Write me a letter as soon as you can, and tell 
me all the news. By the way, as there is not much 
chance of my wanting my bat or my racquet for 
some little time to come perhaps you would not mind 
selling them to Harris for anything that he will give. 
I don’t suppose it will be much, but a little pocket- 
money would be rather handy. This seems to spell 
failure in rather large letters, but I am quite cheery, 
and you are not to imagine anything else. 

“All my love.” 

He laid down his pen, and gazed through the win- 
dow of the tiny apartment into Bayfield Road. The 
evening shadows were settling down on Floodington, 
and they added a melancholy to the scene which it 
certainly did not need. A tram-car, loaded with tired 
workers, rumbled by. The rain was still falling. 


MERRY-ANDREW 


188 

There was no fire in Andrew’s apartment, and no pic- 
tures — nothing but the table and the chair. 

He sat for some minutes leaning his head on his 
hand and wondering how he would ever get through 
the long fifteen weeks that stretched in front of him. 
And when he had got through them, what next ? Why, 
he could only look forward to another term either 
in this school or elsewhere. And so the vista of 
years opened before him, each one as grey and dull as 
its predecessor, for youth sets no limits either to Hope 
or Despair. Andrew, in that hour, was nearer to 
despair than he had ever been in his short life. 

Suddenly the door opened without warning, and 
Lucy Petch entered. She was carrying a small pic- 
ture in her hands, and gave quite a genuine start of 
surprise when she saw Andrew sitting at the little 
table. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Dick. I didn’t know you 
were here.” 

Andrew rose, and this brought them very near 
together. 

“Not at all,” was all he could think of to say. 

“I thought your room might be a little bare,” Lucy 
explained, “so I was going to put this picture some- 
where for you.” 

“May I look at it?” 

“Yes, if you won’t be too critical.” 

“Why? Did you do it yourself?” 

“Yes, I did it at the Technical Institute. I’m study- 
ing there, you know.” 

“I think it’s very pretty.” 

“Do you really ?” Lucy flushed with pleasure. “My 
brothers are always so horrid to me about my drawing 


MERRY-ANDREW 


189 

and painting, but brothers are always like that, aren’t 
they?” 

“I don’t know,” said Andrew. “I never had a 
brother.” 

“But aren’t you a brother yourself? I mean, 
haven’t you got a sister?” 

“I haven’t got anybody in the world. At least, not 
any relative.” 

Lucy’s sharp eyes had espied the letter lying on 
the table. 

“Are you sure there is nobody in the world that 
matters to you ?” 

“Oh,” said Andrew, noticing the direction of her 
glance, “that’s different. That’s to an old friend.” 

“A man-friend?” 

“Well, no, not exactly a man-friend.” 

“What do you mean by ‘not exactly’? You can’t be 
writing to a dog, you know.” 

“No, I’m not writing to a dog. I’m writing to an 
old friend who happens to be a girl.” 

“Oh.” Lucy put on a coquettish air. “On second 
thoughts, I don’t think you’d better have my picture 
in your room.” 

“Oh, please don’t say that. Why shouldn’t I have 
it? It’s such a rotten little room!” 

“Yes, it is, isn’t it? I’m afraid you won’t like it 
very much, living with us.” 

“Why not?” 

“Well, I shouldn’t think we could be a very nice 
family to live with. We’re all rather beasts.” 

“All ?” replied Andrew, giving the door a tiny little 
push behind Lucy’s back. 

“You mustn’t do that,” said Lucy. 


MERRY-ANDREW 


190 

“Do what?” 

“Shut the door when I’m in here with you.” 

“I didn’t shut it. I only gave it a little push.” 

“Well, you mustn’t even give it a little push. It 
must stand wide open.” 

“Why must it?” 

“You know very well why.” 

“No, I don’t. Won’t you tell me?” 

“Well, because the room isn’t very big, is it?” 

“It’s quite big enough for you and me.” 

Their eyes met. Lucy immediately looked down, 
backed away as far as possible, and laid her hand on 
the handle of the door. 

“Now I must go,” she said. 

“Wait a moment,” begged Andrew. “There was 
something I was going to say.” 

“Won’t it keep?” 

“No, it won’t keep.” 

“Be quick, then.” 

“I was going to say I’m quite sure you’re not all 
beasts.” 

“How do you know? You don’t know anything 
about us yet.” 

“Oh, yes, I do. Anyhow, I know you’re not a 
beast.” 

“How do you know ?” 

“Because you brought me up that jolly little pic- 
ture.” 

“I’m not going to leave it, all the same.” 

“Do !” 

“No. If Herbert saw it — and of course he’d be 
bound to see it if you put it up on the wall — he’d be 


MERRY-ANDREW 


191 


simply furious, and then the others would get to know 
all about it, and they’d make my life unbearable.” 

“Then why did you bring it up at all?” 

“I don’t know. It was a silly thing to do, but girls 
do silly things, you know. Goodbye.” 

Before Andrew knew it, she had whisked herself 
out of the little room, painting and all, and he was 
once more alone. But the mood of melancholy had 
passed. Life at Floodington was not going to be such 
a dull affair after all. He found himself almost 
looking forward to supper-time. The letter to Sylvia 
reproached him a little, so he folded it up, put it into 
an envelope, went down the road to the nearest pillar- 
box, dropped it in, and then returned to the bright 
eyes and coquettish glances of Miss Lucy Petch. 

Supper was almost an exact repetition of tea. They 
all sat in the same places, two plates of thick bread- 
and-butter again monopolised the centre of the table, 
Mr. Springbelt went on twitching, Herbert Petch did 
nearly all the talking, Lucy shot sly and provocative 
glances at Andrew. Save for the fact that nobody 
had an egg, not even the great Herbert, and that water 
took the place of tea, the meal might have been the 
same as the one they had so rapturously enjoyed three 
or four hours ago. 

Andrew had discovered, somewhat to his surprise, 
that there were no servants in this house. At least, 
that was how he put it to himself, but he was not 
quite correct. Mrs. Petch was the cook, Miss Pattie 
Petch was the general, Lucy was the light parlour- 
maid, and Bessie was the “tweenie.” It rather startled 
him, coming downstairs one morning, to find Miss 
Pattie Petch on her hands and knees washing the hall, 


192 


MERRY-ANDREW 


but he soon grew accustomed to this phenomenon, 
and found that such an arrangement was quite usual, 
though not invariable, in that part of the world. 

Supper over, Herbert Petch read prayers. He be- 
gan with a long piece out of the Bible, which he read 
with extreme unction, managing to convey the feeling 
to his hearers that the reader was a highly virtuous 
and altogether superior kind of person, whilst they 
themselves had been spending a shockingly wicked 
day of it, and might only hope to escape destruction 
during the night by the personal intervention with 
the Deity of Herbert Petch. 

Then they all knelt down, turning their faces to the 
wall and mercilessly exposing the soles of their boots 
and shoes to the immaculate Herbert, who remained 
in the centre. He now read a number of prayers 
from the Prayer Book, but, not content with that, con- 
cluded with an improvisation of his own. In this he 
explained to the Deity that another term had that day 
opened at Bayfield College, and asked that the labours 
of all those present might result in the moral and 
intellectual development of those entrusted to their 
care, together with a slight hint that an increase in 
the number of pupils after Christmas would not be 
unworthy the deserts of either Mr. Petch senior or 
Mr. Petch junior. He went on to call the attention 
of the Deity to the fact that a branch establishment 
of Bayfield College had opened higher up the road, 
and asked that the same blessing might rest on the 
humble efforts of those who would be working at the 
branch establishment, if not, perhaps, just a shade 
more than was usually bestowed upon Bayfield Col- 
lege. In conclusion, to Andrew’s horror, he men- 


MERRY-ANDREW 


193 


tioned that there was a new-comer in their midst that 
night, who, though young and inexperienced, would 
be well looked after, and thus prevented from doing 
such damage to the souls of those with whom he was 
being brought in contact as might otherwise have been 
the case. 

This earnest exhortation was followed by a long 
interval of silent prayer. Then they all rose, look- 
ing as impressed as they could contrive, and Mr. 
Springbelt dashed at Mrs. Petch as though he were 
going to knock her through the wall into the next 
house. But he only shook hands with the lady, though 
this must have been sufficiently painful, seeing that in 
his agitation he grasped two only of her fingers, one 
of them being doubled up at the time. Mr. Spring- 
belt repeated this operation on everybody in the room, 
and then twitched himself backwards into the hall, and 
disappeared. 

All the Petch family now began to indulge in an 
orgy of goodnight kissing. Everybody kissed every- 
body else, the monotony of the performance being 
varied only by Master Eddie, who managed to bite the 
ear of his dear little sister Bessie under pretence of 
wishing her a brotherly goodnight. Bessie uttered a 
slight scream, which necessitated an explanation of 
the whole affair to brother Herbert, who became filled 
with righteous indignation, and promised that a full 
report of the incident should be laid before his father 
the following morning. Under cover of this episode, 
Andrew slipped up to his room. 

He had not been in bed many minutes when Her- 
bert Petch arrived. If there is one thing the young 
Englishman learns at the Public Schools and the Uni- 


194 


MERRY-ANDREW 


versifies, that thing is undoubtedly cleanliness of per- 
son. Imagine Andrew's horror, therefore, when Mr. 
Herbert Petch, the immaculate, the unfleshly, the per- 
sonal friend of the Deity, actually got into bed with- 
out removing his undervest and other undergarments. 
Even Mr. Herbert Petch seemed to feel that some 
explanation of this conduct was necessary. 

“Rather good plan, this," he said. “Ever try it?" 

“No," said Andrew, shortly. 

“Oh, you should. Saves time at night and 
saves time in the morning. Of course one has to 
change a little oftener." 

It certainly did save time in the morning, for Mr. 
Herbert Petch lay in bed until the last possible mo- 
ment, and then sprang up, hurriedly pulled on his 
outer clothing, rinsed his face slightly in half a pint 
of water, and hurried downstairs to thank the Deity, 
on his own behalf and that of his unworthy family 
and the other members of the household, for an ex- 
cellent night’s rest. 

However, this last illuminating flash was spared 
Andrew for the time being. We leave him in his 
little camp-bed in the corner, trying to prevent his 
toes from peeping out at the end and his knees from 
scraping against the iron framework, listening to the 
unctuous snores of Mr. Herbert Petch, trying to keep 
his mind fixed on Sylvia, but continually finding that 
it would wander off to the quick covert glances of 
little Miss Lucy. 

So ended the first day in Bayfield College. 


CHAPTER III 


ANDREW AS USHER. MINUTE ACCOUNT OF A VERY 
NERVOUS DAY 

NDREW was late for breakfast next morning, 



having wasted about ten minutes in a search 


for the bathroom. He discovered it at last, 


only to find that it was in use — not as a bathroom, 
but as a bedroom for Charlie Petch. It was one of 
the grievances of Charlie’s existence that he could 
not get to bed on Saturday nights until all the house- 
hold had bathed. This shortage of rooms in a house 
of fair size was due to the fact that two of the prin- 
cipal apartments were occupied by a wealthy Greek 
gentleman, who had nothing whatever to do with the 
school, but was a boarder in Mr. Petch’s house, thus 
adding a pleasant variety to the labours of Mrs. Petch 
and her daughters. 

When Andrew got downstairs, he found a piece of 
congealing fried bacon waiting for him in his place, 
and a cup of tepid tea. This being the first morning, 
Mr. Herbert Petch passed over the heinous crime of 
unpunctuality with a little forced pleasantry, but it 
was plain to Andrew that he had already caused the 
righteous one to grieve. 

After breakfast, observing through a window at the 
back of the house that the pupils were beginning to 
arrive, and that one high-spirited lad was trying to 


195 


196 


MERRY-ANDREW 


force a handful of earth down the back of a some- 
what smaller companion, Andrew went out into the 
playground, where he found Mr. Springbelt walking 
rapidly to and fro in a remote corner. Every minute 
the door at the end of the playground would open, 
and other pupils would enter, their satchels slung over 
their shoulders. They were not a bad set of lads; 
Mr. McKechnie had summed them up to a nicety. 
They stared very hard at Andrew, and then whispered 
their comments on his appearance to some particular 
friend, the comment being almost invariably followed 
by merry laughter. Andrew pretended not to notice 
anything of this, but was conscious of tremors of 
which he was very much ashamed. 

Bearing in mind Mr. Herbert Petch’s suggestion 
that he should organise a jolly game to keep the boys 
amused until they had to go into school, he tried to 
screw up his courage to the point of starting a game 
of “Prisoner’s Base.” The screwing up process was 
still in progress when Charlie Petch came running 
from the house with a scared face, and spoke rapidly 
to Mr. Springbelt. This communication resulted in a 
more than usually painful set of spasms, after which 
Mr. Springbelt shouted, in one very low note and one 
very high one, “All in !” The boys, rather to Andrew’s 
surprise, at once obeyed. 

Andrew was about to follow them when Mr. Petch 
came from the house. He was quite unlike any school- 
master that Andrew had ever seen, being, indeed, 
rather in the style of a Salvation Army officer with a 
mild taste for farming. He was a short man, with 
a straggling iron-grey moustache, ruddy cheeks, and 
eyes that glowed with religious emotion. He was 


MERRY-ANDREW 


197 


dressed in a black morning coat and grey striped 
trousers. He wore no gown, and his head was bare. 

Noticing Andrew, Mr. Petch at once came up to 
him and grasped him by the hand. 

“Mr. Dick?” he asked. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“I hope they have made you quite comfortable, Mr. 
Dick?” 

“Quite, thank you.” 

“My son has informed you of your duties?” 

“Yes, sir, thank you.” 

“Very good. I hope you will be happy with us, 
Mr. Dick. I am a very strict disciplinarian, but I like 
people around me to be happy.” 

Mr. Petch spoke in the tone of one who would be 
extremely annoyed if the people around him were not 
happy. Andrew also noticed a curious quaver in his 
voice, constantly suppressed, which bespoke high 
nervous tension. He subsequently discovered that an 
intense zeal in all that he undertook was Mr. Petch’s 
chief virtue, a violent temper his chief fault, and 
nerves his chief cross. 

The morning opened with prayers. Mr. Petch read 
prayers with the same peculiar quaver in his voice, 
and concluded with a prayer specially composed for 
the occasion by himself. Mr. Petch prayed that all 
those assembled under that roof would strive their 
utmost during the coming term to give satisfaction 
to their parents and to those placed in authority over 
them; he prayed that they should be earnest in their 
work and in their games ; he prayed that they would 
be upright, truthful, honest in all their dealings. He 
prayed, finally, that if anybody should fail to come 


198 


MERRY-ANDREW 


up to this standard, he, Mr. Petch, might not shrink 
from administering to the erring brother such helpful 
and stimulating correction as should serve to bring 
him into line with his comrades and keep him there 
for the remainder of the term. 

Thereupon the whole company rose from their 
knees, Mr. Springbelt and Andrew brushed their 
trousers, the names were called over, and school be- 
gan. The schoolroom was divided into two parts, the 
larger part occupying the whole of the building, and 
the smaller part being a little classroom at one end. 
Andrew was told by Mr. Springbelt that he would find 
his form in the small classroom, and that they would 
take the First Book of Kings as their subject for 
the term. Mr. Springbelt accompanied Andrew to the 
classroom, and kindly introduced him to the class. 
The class looked at each other to see whether Andrew 
was to be taken seriously or treated as a colossal joke. 
After some slight hesitation, as Andrew affected a 
composure which he most certainly did not feel, the 
class decided to give him a chance. They were all 
quite small boys, ranging from eight years of age to 
ten or eleven. The method of procedure, Andrew 
gathered, was to read aloud a chapter, verse by verse, 
and then, the Bibles being closed, to answer questions 
that he would put to them and take places according 
to their answers. 

The reading proceeded smoothly enough for a time, 
but an unfortunate incident occurred just as they 
were nearing the end of the chapter. Andrew had 
observed a good deal of inattention on the part of a 
boy with black hair and a prominent nose who was 
sitting at the front desk. When this inattention 


MERRY-ANDREW 


199 

amounted to dipping his finger into an inkpot and 
smearing it on the collar of the boy next him, Andrew 
judged that the moment had come to show that he 
intended to uphold the discipline of which Mr. Petch 
was so justly proud. Stopping the reading, there- 
fore, he fixed the boy with the black hair and promi- 
nent nose with a terrifying glance, and asked his 
name. 

“Isaacson,” replied the boy in a low voice. 

“What name? Speak up!” 

“Isaacson,” repeated the boy, in a still lower voice. 

“I can’t hear you. What did you say your name 
was ?” 

The boy this time said nothing, but several other 
voices shouted in chorus, “Isaacson!” 

“Silence!” cried Andrew. “When I wish any boy 
to speak, I will tell him so.” Advancing towards the 
culprit, he placed his hand on his shoulder. “Now,” 
he repeated, “what did you say your name was?” 

“Isaacson,” muttered the boy, almost inaudibly. 

“And what is your Christian name?” demanded 
Andrew. 

The class, delighted, held its breath. 

“Haven’t got one,” said Isaacson. 

“What’s that? What did you say?” 

“Haven’t got one,” repeated Isaacson. 

Andrew felt quite certain by this time that Master 
Isaacson was pulling his leg. He must certainly assert 
his authority, or he would have no peace as long as 
he remained at Bayfield College. Drawing his brows 
down, therefore, as far as they would go, he growled, 
“Once more, will you, or will you not, tell me your 
Christian name?” 


200 


MERRY-ANDREW 


Isaacson, to Andrew’s horror, began to cry. Large 
tears gathered in those dark Semitic eyes, rolled over 
that splendid Semitic nose, and dropped with distinct 
thuds on to Isaacson’s Bible. 

'There’s nothing to cry about,” said Andrew, be- 
ginning to feel desperately uncomfortable. Suppose 
Mr. Petch happened to come in? What would he 
think of his new master who made the boys cry be- 
fore he had been with them a quarter of an hour? 
Still, he felt that he was being keenly observed, and 
that the report of this affair would spread through 
the school at the first interval. 

"If you don’t tell me your Christian name,” he said, 
in much the same tone as the judge in his dream had 
employed when he sentenced him to death, "I shall 
have to keep you in for half an hour this afternoon 
after the other boys have gone.” 

"Haven’t — g-got one,” gurgled the wretched Isaac- 
son, abandoning himself to the full luxury of un- 
checked sobs. 

"How dare you say that?” demanded Andrew. 
"How dare you say that you haven’t got a Christian 
name ? Everybody has a Christian name !” 

At this point, several grubby little hands were shot 
up into the air, and a small fusillade of snapping 
fingers arrested Andrew’s attention. 

"Stop that noise!” he commanded. "If anybody 
wishes to speak to me, he may put up his hand, but 
he must not snap his fingers. Now,” he added, turn- 
ing to the oldest and most responsible-looking boy in 
the class, "what is it you wish to tell me?” 

"Please, sir, he hasn’t got a Christian name. He’s a 
Jew.” 


MERRY-ANDREW 


201 

At once Andrew saw the horrible trap into which 
he had fallen. It had never occurred to him before 
that a Jew did not have a Christian name. It was 
really a very awkward moment, and he knew that he 
had suddenly become very red in the face, but the 
situation must be saved. 

“Thank you,” he said. “Well, Isaacson, as you 
haven’t a Christian name, will you kindly tell me 
what they call you at home?” 

“Bub-bub-blob,” sobbed Isaacson, and there imme- 
diately arose such a yell of laughter as brought Mr. 
Petch himself to the door of the classroom. A hush 
as of death fell upon the room. 

“What is the meaning of this?” asked Mr. Petch, 
struggling to keep his wrath within bounds. 

“I’m afraid it’s my fault, sir,” said Andrew. 

“Indeed? Did you make a joke?” 

“No, sir, I didn’t make a joke, but I happened to 
put a question to a boy which brought a somewhat 
unfortunate answer.” 

“Which was the boy?” demanded Mr. Petch. 

“It was a boy called Isaacson,” replied Andrew, very 
much against his will. 

“Oh, it was Isaacson, was it? And what question 
did you put to Isaacson, Mr. Dick?” 

“I asked him what they called him at home.” 

“Yes, you asked him what they called him at home. 
And what did Isaacson reply?” 

“He said that they called him Blob, sir.” 

“Indeed? That is what they call you at home, 
Isaacson, is it ? Just step this way !” 

The wretched youngster, too frightened now even 
to cry, lifted his little legs one after the other over 


MERRY-ANDREW 


202 

the bench, and came walking as delicately as King 
Agag to the open space in which Mr. Petch was 
standing. 

“So they call you Blob at home, do they? Well, 
Mister Blob, just hold out your hand.” 

Isaacson thrust forth a very dirty little hand, and 
Mr. Petch struck at it with a round ruler which he 
happened to be carrying. The ruler just caught the 
tip of Isaacson’s fingers, but that was quite enough 
to bring forth a howl that rang to the roof. 

“They call you Blob at home, do they? Blob, eh? 
That’s what they call you, is it? Well, Mister Blob, 
hold out your other hand !” 

Out came the other hand, and again the ruler de- 
scended, this time with a slightly firmer result. The 
miserable Isaacson, grasping the hand that had been 
struck with the less injured one, turned completely 
round, and then ran back to his seat. Mr. Petch 
seemed to be on the point of following him, but dig- 
nity stepped in, and he decided that Isaacson had been 
sufficiently punished seeing that the term was not yet 
an hour old. 

“Let this be a warning to you, Isaacson, and to 
all of you. Mr. Dick is a new-comer, but that is no 
reason why he should be insulted. I expect you to 
show him the same respect that you would show to 
me, or to my son, or to Mr. Springbelt. Let me 
hear of any other boy attempting to be humorous at 
Mr. Dick’s expense, and I’ll give him the soundest 
thrashing he ever had in all his days.” And with 
that he returned to the large schoolroom. 

The scene had been very distasteful to Andrew, not 
that young Isaacson was much hurt — he was very much 


MERRY-ANDREW 


203 


more frightened than hurt — but because he really did 
not believe that the boy had meant to raise a laugh 
against him. Herein he may or may not have shown 
a knowledge of the nature of boys. At any rate, he 
decided, then and there, never to expose a boy to the 
righteous indignation of Mr. Petch if he could pos- 
sibly avoid it, but to deal with him himself, and after 
his own fashion. 

The Scripture lesson concluded, Andrew walked 
up the road until he came to a small building in front 
of which a painted board announced boldly to the 
world that here Mr. Herbert Pe. \ assisted by gen- 
tlemen from the universities, prepared the sons of 
Gentlemen for the Public Schools. Andrew entered, 
and found nine sons of Gentlemen in the throes of 
this desirable process of preparation. They were very 
small sons of Gentlemen — so small that Andrew had 
to walk warily for fear of treading on them. They 
were dressed in nursery fashion, sailor suits being 
easily the chief favourite. One son of a Gentleman 
was so complete as to costume that he carried a whistle 
of piercing force suspended from his neck by white 
cording; at intervals of a minute or less, it pleasured 
this son of a Gentleman to blow a shrill blast upon the 
whistle, whereupon the other sons of Gentlemen rocked 
with laughter, and Mr. Herbert Petch struggled to 
combine a smile of paternal pride with a gentle frown 
of pedagogic authority. 

This whistle, in point of fact, set the note for Mr. 
Herbert Petch’s Academy. Discipline was not the 
main feature of the Academy; neither was learning. 
Mr. Herbert Petch, with the cunning of a sturdy little 
serpent, had decided that it was more important to 


204 MERRY-ANDREW 

please the mothers of the sons of Gentlemen than the 
Gentlemen themselves; in other words, that it would 
pay him better to send little Cyril and little Horace 
and little Hughie to their homes with smiling faces 
than to insist upon a too active preparation for the 
Public Schools. It was Andrew’s chief duty, there- 
fore, to keep the sons of Gentlemen in a state of 
chuckling imbecility. The letters of the alphabet were 
to be regarded as so many fantastic monsters perform- 
ing preposterous capers for the sole edification of the 
sons of Gentlemen; figures were ugly hobgoblins to 
be made game o r and despitefully used; pot-hooks 
were fat aldermen struggling along the street in a 
high wind. It was not exactly the work that he had 
promised himself when he set out to London with 
nineteen pounds in his pocket to stagger the world 
with his brilliance, but it provided him with a piece of 
bacon on a plate, a camp-bed in a corner, and the 
society of Mr. Herbert Petch; so he shouldered the 
task as cheerfully as might be, and transformed him- 
self into a day-nurse with the added and surprising 
gift of being able to imitate, more or less faithfully, 
the pictured inhabitants of the average farmyard. 

Dinner was the next event. This was served punc- 
tually at one o’clock, and Andrew was not wholly 
delighted to find several of the boys from the larger 
school, who lived too far off to make the double 
journey, wedged in between the usual occupants 
of the table. The meal began with a piece of York- 
shire pudding, set before him, without a word, 
by Miss Pattie. Andrew had not hitherto come in 
contact with this custom, which, at any rate, has the 
economical merit of removing the edge of the appe- 


MERRY-ANDREW 


205 


tite before the meat is served. He meekly ate up 
his pudding and the plate was then removed to be 
presently brought back containing meat and vegetables. 
All the dishes were at a side table under the frugal 
hand of Mrs. Petch. 

This, together with a glass of water, completed 
the business, and Andrew was about to retire to his 
den for a quiet pipe before afternoon school when 
he was stopped by Mr. Herbert Petch. 

“My father would like you to deliver your History 
lecture this afternoon to the Second, Third, and 
Fourth Forms. The whole lesson should last about 
an hour.” 

“D’you mean that I’ve got to lecture for a whole 
hour? I never lectured in my life!” 

“No. The lecture need not last for the whole hour. 
My father would like you to lecture for half an hour, 
and then to write a series of questions bearing upon 
the lecture on the blackboard. The boys should write 
the answers to the questions in their note-books, and 
then you will give them the correct replies.” 

“I see. There's just one thing. Wouldn’t it do as 
well if I read them something out of the book?” 

“Most decidedly not. My father holds — and I cer- 
tainly agree with him — that the attention of boys is 
arrested far more easily by a lecture than by a reading. 
That is the whole idea of the lesson.” 

“My History is most awfully groggy,” protested 
Andrew, beginning to quake exceedingly. 

Mr. Herbert Petch looked at him with a stern eye. 
“Mr. McKechnie gave me English History as one of 
your subjects,” he said. 

“Yes, but I didn’t expect that I should have to lec- 


206 MERRY-ANDREW 

ture on it without a book. I never heard of that being 
done at any other school. ,, 

“It is invariably done at our school,” explained 
Mr. Herbert Petch, coldly. “I have done it myself for 
some years past. However, I daresay there would be 
no objection to your making a few notes. You have 
half an hour in which to prepare your lecture.” 

With that he walked off, and Andrew ran up to his 
den, and seized upon an old History book. The Plan- 
tagenet period was the special subject for the term, 
so Andrew, instead of enjoying his quiet pipe, set to 
work to cram up as much as possible of the beginnings 
of the Plantagenet period in half an hour. He had 
gathered from Mr. Herbert Petch that his notes were 
not to be voluminous, so he took a postcard from 
his writing-case, and covered it with very small writ- 
ing and figures. Armed with this he felt safer, but 
it was a very nervous and anxious Andrew who pres- 
ently found himself facing some forty to fifty boys 
in the large classroom, no other master being present. 

The boys listened to his outpourings with atten- 
tion, for they had not yet tumbled to the fact that 
Andrew knew no more about the Plantagenet period 
than was written on the back of his postcard. As a 
matter of fact, it was not until several afternoons 
later that they saw through his little ruse, and then 
one fair-haired angel, with blue eyes and a guileless 
countenance, raised his hand and asked for the date 
of an event that had been mentioned two or three 
afternoons ago. This was a critical moment for 
Andrew, having no book to fall back upon, but he was 
equal to the emergency. 

“Silence !” he said, sharply. “If you have forgotten 


MERRY-ANDREW 207 

that date, Green, you may look it up in your exercise- 
book after school, and write it out fifty times. That 
will perhaps prevent you from forgetting it for the 
future.” 

Green subsided, and the situation had been skated 
over, but Andrew knew that the boys knew that the 
ice was remarkably thin. 

The second hour that afternoon was given up to Mr. 
Springbelt’s Chemistry lecture. A large table was 
placed at one end of the schoolroom, and the boys 
were grouped round it, some sitting and some stand- 
ing. Mr. Springbelt unlocked a cupboard, and placed 
upon the table a number of weird-looking glass recep- 
tacles and other paraphernalia, the mere sight of which 
gave unbounded delight to his audience. Andrew re- 
mained in the room to keep order. 

Mr. Springbelt had mastered just enough Chemical 
Science to enable him to scrape through the London 
Matriculation. That triumph had occurred some ten 
or fifteen years before Andrew went to Bayfield Col- 
lege, and Mr. Springbelt had not had the opportunity 
of adding to his store of knowledge during that period. 
However, this was not of very great consequence, for 
even had he been as learned as a professor of the 
science, he was so wretchedly nervous that he would 
never have been able to expound his wisdom to any 
class whatsoever. 

“This afternoon,” began Mr. Springbelt, twitching 
so swiftly that the human eye could scarcely follow 
his movements, “I am going to prepare some hydrogen, 
and to test its properties. For this we require the 
following articles which you see here upon the table, 
namely, a glass trough, a beehive shelf, a taper, a 


208 


MERRY-ANDREW 


Florence flask, some zinc, some sulphuric acid, a de- 
livery tube, a rubber cork, a thistle funnel, and some 
gas jars.” 

Up went a hand. 

“Yes?” replied Mr. Springbelt. 

“If you please, sir, what’s a thistle funnel?” 

Mr. Springbelt at once became so eager to explain 
the use and purpose of a thistle funnel that he flung 
himself at the table, and sent a gas jar flying to the 
floor, where it was smashed into a hundred pieces. A 
great burst of laughter greeted this feat, which Andrew 
endeavoured to quell by frowning heavily and shout- 
ing, “Silence !” at the top of his voice. His authority 
was somewhat lessened, however, by his own very 
obvious desire to join in the merriment. Mr. Spring- 
belt, in the meantime, was hastily collecting the frag- 
ments of the gas jar and putting them out of sight. 
He was really greatly interested in Chemistry, but he 
found it an expensive hobby inasmuch as the cost of 
breakages was deducted from his terminal salary. 

Order being restored, Mr. Springbelt proceeded to 
answer the question. 

“A thistle funnel,” he explained, in a very high 
voice indeed, “is a glass tube which we thrust through 
a cork in order that no air may escape from the recep- 
tacle except through the delivery tube. Here is one 
in my hand.” 

“If you please, sir, why is it called a thistle funnel?” 

“Because the top of it is shaped like a thistle,” 
said Mr. Springbelt. 

“If you please, sir,” urged another student, “thistles 
aren’t like that.” 

“How d’you know ?” asked Andrew. 


MERRY-ANDREW 209 

“Because weVe got some in our back garden.” 

“Then you’d better go and eat them,” retorted 
Andrew, and the laugh was against the interruptor. 
This cheap little gibe went far to establishing Andrew’s 
reputation as a humorist with a caustic tongue of 
which it would be well to beware. 

“Now,” continued Mr. Springbelt, very grateful to 
Andrew for his assistance, “we set up our apparatus. 
Here is our glass trough, here is our beehive shelf, 
here our Florence flask, zinc, delivery tube, sulphuric 
acid, rubber cork, thistle funnel, and gas jars. We 
now put the zinc in the flask, and we pour the sulphuric 
acid on it.” 

Unfortunately, Mr. Springbelt’s hand trembled so 
much during this operation that he spilled some of the 
sulphuric acid on to Mr. Petch’s table, which pro- 
duced a very nasty black mark, together with sup- 
pressed giggles from the students. 

“Silence!” cried Andrew. “If there is any more 
laughing, I shall have to keep the whole class in for 
an hour after the Chemistry lecture instead of foot- 
ball.” 

The very enormity of this threat was sufficient to 
prove his inexperience in dealing with schoolboys, for 
they knew that the threatened punishment far ex- 
ceeded the offence, and was therefore unlikely to be 
carried out. 

“We now,” cried Mr. Springbelt excitedly, “see the 
air being expelled from the flask by the hydrogen !” 

“If you please, sir,” said a large, fat boy named 
Henn, “I don’t see it.” 

“I do!” put in a sharp young Hebrew, and there 


2io merry-andrew; 

was a running chorus of “I do! I do!” all up and 
down the class. 

“Silence!” bellowed Andrew. 

“I shall now show you,” went on Mr. Springbelt, 
sincerely hoping that he would be as good as his word, 
“the result of applying a light to hydrogen mixed 
with air.” 

There was a rustle of excitement all round the class, 
several boys endeavouring to elbow others out of the 
way, whilst Henn made a surreptitious attempt to push 
a smaller boy right on to the table. This manoeuvre 
was observed by Andrew, who thought it better not 
to issue any further reprimands at the moment. Be- 
sides, he particularly wanted to see the explosion 
himself. 

“You must understand,” piped Mr. Springbelt, 
“that a certain amount of hydrogen is now collected 

in the gas jar. I light this taper ” He struck a 

match, and held it with trembling fingers to the taper, 
which, however, utterly refused to light. Mr. Spring- 
belt, having held the match until it burnt his fingers, 
struck a second match, but still the taper would not 
light. This was not very surprising, seeing that Eddie 
Petch had carefully soaked the taper in water just 
before the beginning of school. Andrew observed a 
certain amount of self-consciousness on the face of the 
dear lad, and also saw him whispering out of the cor- 
ner of his mouth to his friend Henn, but did not probe 
further into the matter. 

“Since the taper refuses to light,” said Mr. Spring- 
belt at last, “I shall apply a match to the hydrogen, 
and you will then hear the explosion. It is not cus- 
tomary,” he explained, “to perform this experiment 


MERRY-ANDREW 211 

with a human hand, a taper being preferable in case 
of accidents. We will now have the explosion.” 

Holding the lighted match in two fingers that trem- 
bled excessively, he advanced towards the bottom of 
one of the jars. The class, breathless with excitement, 
and as still as an empty church, leaned forward. This 
was one of the great moments of Mr. Springbelt’s 
life. Of such moments he dreamed on happy nights, 
and with the recollection of such moments he com- 
forted himself when the world was more than usually 
difficult. 

“Now!” cried Mr. Springbelt. “Watch me very 
carefully. Here in one hand I have the jar contain- 
ing the hydrogen, the end of the jar being sealed by 
a small piece of glass. In the other hand I hold the 
match. I am now going to raise the jar and apply 
the match to the unsealed end, when the explosion 
will immediately take place.” 

The luckless gentleman had just concluded his ex- 
planation, and was about to set the crown to his 
labours, when a very unfortunate thing happened which 
was entirely due to Eddie Petch’s conduct earlier in 
the afternoon. The match which Mr. Springbelt was 
holding in his right hand, and upon which the breath- 
less attention of the class was fixed, again burnt itself 
down to the very end. Mr. Springbelt emitted a shrill 
scream, flung away the match, also the gas jar con- 
taining the hydrogen, and also the small piece of glass 
with which the end had been sealed. 

The delight of his listeners knew no bounds. They 
banged their knees with their fists, they hugged each 
other for sheer glee, and shouts of boyish merriment 


212 MERRY-ANDREW 

ascended to the ceiling. Andrew observed that some- 
thing must be done, and done quickly. 

“Go to your desks !” he commanded. “Sit down in 
your places! I shall take the name of any boy who 
is heard to make a single sound, and report him to 
Mr. Petch.” 

This threat produced an instantaneous effect. 
The boys hurried to their places, and sat there like 
knickerbockered statues, hardly daring to breathe. 
Mr. Springbelt, in the meantime, was sweeping up the 
remains of the second breakage. The poor little man 
could have cried with disappointment, and he felt very 
bitterly the humiliation of having his lecture brought 
to a conclusion in this summary fashion. Andrew 
consoled him, however, by suggesting that the boys 
should be told to write out an account of the experi- 
ment, which would keep them quiet until the end of 
the hour. 


CHAPTER IV 


A JOLLY GAME OF FOOTBALL — AND ANOTHER LITTLE 
GAME 

T HE excitements of the day were not yet over; 
there still remained the game of football. As 
soon as the clock struck four, school broke up, 
and a contingent of the largest boys, accompanied by 
Mr. Springbelt and Andrew, proceeded to a field in 
the neighbourhood and enjoyed what Mr. Herbert 
Petch would have described as a rattling good game. 
The conditions, unfortunately, were not ideal for per- 
fect bliss. The field was, in reality, a piece of ground 
so unattractive in every way that nobody would build 
on it, knowing quite well that, if they did, they would 
never persuade anyone to live there. It was bounded 
on two sides by the shafts of an abandoned coal-mine, 
and certain boys had to be told off to see that the 
ball did not bounce over the edge of these shafts and 
disappear for ever. On the other two sides the ground 
was bordered by the backs of cheap dwelling-places, 
where various garments swayed and tossed in the 
grimy air, and gathered unto themselves the peculiarly 
leaden hue without which their owners would scarcely 
have recognised them. There was no grass on the 
field, and the surface, partly owing to the trampling 
of many feet, and partly to the rain which fell five 
days out of seven in that locality, had become a shallow 
lake of grey mud. 


213 


MERRY-ANDREW 


214 

Into the midst of this quagmire proceeded Andrew, 
Mr. Springbelt, and nineteen of the boys, the correct 
number being presently made up by the arrival of 
Charlie Petch, who worked in a bank. He, like all 
the others, was dressed in his ordinary clothes. 

“Shall we pick up?” he said to Andrew in a lordly 
tone. 

“If you like,” said Andrew. 

Charlie Petch picked the boy Henn, and Andrew, as 
a matter of courtesy, selected Mr. Springbelt. A 
derisive murmur followed this choice, which Charlie 
Petch did nothing to discourage. 

The sides completed, the ball was placed in the 
centre, and the two teams took up their appointed 
places on the field. Charlie Petch played centre-for- 
ward for his own team, and Andrew, who anticipated 
very little pleasure from playing a game under such 
conditions, placed himself in goal. Mr. Springbelt 
informed his captain that he usually played forward 
on the right wing, and Andrew therefore acquiesced. 

It was a monotonous game, consisting chiefly of a 
series of plunges by Mr. Charlie Petch down the centre 
of the field, through a crowd of boys who were much 
too small to tackle him, and ending with a long shot 
at the goal. Most of these went wide, and the others 
Andrew contrived to save without much difficulty, 
although he found it necessary more than once to catch 
the muddy ball in his arms, which caused him much 
anxiety owing to the very scanty condition of his 
wardrobe. 

When half-time was called, Charlie’s team had 
scored two goals, and Andrew’s side were still at 
nil. He determined, therefore, on a new move, and 


MERRY-ANDREW 


215 


placed Mr. Springbelt at centre-half, giving him strict 
injunctions to interfere with the man Charles as much 
as possible. Charlie Petch was at first inclined to treat 
the hovering Mr. Springbelt as a huge joke, but finding 
the little man very much in the way, he presently lost 
his temper, and shouldered him on to his back in 
the mud. Poor Mr. Springbelt picked himself up, 
and there was a roar of laughter when it was 
seen that his back was plastered with mud half an 
inch thick, for a boy is a many-faceted jewel, and can 
be amused by the consequences of an act even though 
he is indignant at the act itself. 

Andrew waited his opportunity, and then spoke 
hurriedly in the ear of the victim. 

“Go for him !” he urged. “He’s as soft as a pud- 
ding. Wait your opportunity, and then get him low 
down as hard as you can barge!” 

Mr. Springbelt nodded, and it was evident that he 
did not lack spirit when once he was sufficiently warm 
to lose self-consciousness. He made several rapid lit- 
tle dashes at the plump Charlie, but these failed of 
their full effect owing to Mr. Springbelt’s lack of 
science. At last, however, he saw his chance. The 
ball had crossed the line at Andrew’s end of the field, 
and a corner-kick had been awarded to Charlie’s side. 
The irresistible Charles stood near the mouth of the 
goal, waiting for the ball to be delivered unto him. 
He did not observe that Mr. Springbelt was close at 
hand, his limbs twitching, his fists clenched, and an ex- 
pression of wolfish ferocity on his face. The ball was 
kicked, and Charlie Petch, his mouth open, raised his 
right foot to catch it on the volley and shoot it through 
the goal. This was Mr. Springbelt’s chance. With- 


216 MERRY-ANDREW 

out waiting for the ball to arrive, he ran madly at 
his tormentor, lowered his head, and butted him full 
in the stomach. Down went the plump Charles, and 
lay where he had fallen, holding both hands firmly to 
his waist-belt. 

This was another of the great moments of Mr. 
Springbelt’s life, amply atoning for the broken gas 
jars, and the burning of his fingers, and the muddying 
of his suit. Cries of “Foul!” arose from Charlie’s 
adherents, and there was no doubt about the matter. 
A free-kick was given, and Charlie managed to rouse 
himself to the point of taking the kick. 

It was now Andrew’s turn. He was not very much 
of a footballer, to tell the truth, but he was quite dis- 
gusted with the overbearing, bullying methods of Mr. 
Charles Petch, who clearly revelled in the fact that 
most of his opponents were about half his size. 

The ball came straight for the goal. Andrew, re- 
gardless now of his clothes, caught it in his arms. 
Charlie Petch and his supporters dashed forward, but 
Andrew punted it high over their heads towards the 
centre of the field. Then, disregarding the canons 
of the game, like one of Ouida’s own heroes, he left 
the goal to take care of itself, plunged through the 
mob before him, and raced for the ball. Charlie 
Petch, divining Andrew’s intention, also turned and 
made for the ball. 

The boys soon hung back, and simply allowed the 
two young men to fight the matter out between them. 
Andrew was a good deal quicker on his feet than the 
plump Charles, but he had to dribble the ball more 
than half the length of the field, and he could hear 
the snortings of his rival over his left shoulder. On 


MERRY-ANDREW 


217 

they went, and now there was nobody between Andrew 
and the goal save a diminutive goal-keeper. But 
Charlie Petch had drawn level, and was clearly con- 
sidering the value of his extra weight. Just as he 
lowered his right shoulder for the charge, Andrew put 
his right foot in front of the ball, and stopped it dead. 
At this moment, Charlie Petch, by whom the ma- 
noeuvre was entirely unsuspected, lunged with all his 
force at Andrew, and missed him. Owing to the 
slimy condition of the ground, the poor fellow was 
unable to keep his feet, and for the second time that 
afternoon fell prone in the morass. Andrew heard a 
combined shout of glee from the other end of the 
ground, but he made sure of his goal before turning 
round. Then he saw the miry Charles picking him- 
self up. 

“Sorry,” he said. 

“You tripped me!” 

“I beg your pardon. I did nothing of the sort.” 

“Yes, you did. You deliberately tripped me. Those 
tricks may do for Oxford, but they won’t go up here, I 
can tell you.” 

Andrew made no reply. It was evident that the 
youth was mightily enraged, and it was of no use to 
argue with him until he cooled down. Andrew re- 
turned to his goal, and the game proceeded. 

Charlie Petch now put forth all his energies in order 
to recover his prestige and self-complacence. He 
dashed about more wildly than ever, and several of 
the little boys found themselves on their backs in the 
mud. There was still a quarter of an hour to play, and 
Andrew feared that the game would not end without 
some other unpleasant incident. 


218 


MERRY-ANDREW 


His fears were justified. The boy Green, who was 
quite a skilful little player, took a pass from Mr. 
Springbelt, ran down the right wing, and managed to 
secure a second goal. Charlie Petch immediately ruled 
that the boy was “offside," and, since there was no um- 
pire, proceeded to help himself to a free-kick. Green 
emphatically protested that he was not “offside/' and 
appealed to Andrew. 

“Come here," said Charlie Petch. 

Green approached him. 

“What do you mean by contradicting me like that ?" 

“I only said I wasn’t offside." 

“Did you hear me say that you were offside?" 

“Yes, but I know I wasn’t. There were three or 
four between me and the goal when I took the pass." 

“Leave the ground," commanded Charles. 

Andrew could not hear very well what was being 
said, but he saw Charlie Petch talking to Green, and 
he saw the boy walk towards his coat. It at once 
occurred to him that Master Charles was exceeding his 
authority. He was not a master in the school, al- 
though he was a son of the Head. If a boy had to be 
sent off the field, it was clearly the duty of Mr. Spring- 
belt or of Andrew himself to give the order. It would 
have been wiser, no doubt, to keep quiet at the time 
and have it out with Charlie Petch afterwards, but 
youth does not always weigh these matters so care- 
fully, especially when the blood is heated. He walked 
quickly from his place, therefore, and asked why Green 
was leaving the field. 

“Because he had the impertinence to contradict me," 
said Charles. 

“But who sent him off the field ?" 


MERRY-ANDREW 


219 


“I did, if you want to know.” 

“But I understood that Mr. Springbelt and myself 
were in charge of the boys.” 

“Then you understood wrong. I’ve always been in 
charge of the games in my brother’s absence, and I 
intend to go on being in charge of them.” 

•“If that’s the case, I’ve no more to say.” 

“That’s all right,” sneered Charlie Petch. 

The game went on, Andrew’s side playing one man 
short. Andrew now definitely abandoned his defensive 
attitude. Placing one of the boys in goal, he went 
forward himself, and adopted the rushing tactics that 
had stood him in good stead earlier in the afternoon. 
Charlie Petch dashed about like an infuriated bull, 
but he had really very little skill when it came to 
playing against a man instead of little boys. When 
time was called, Andrew’s side were three goals to 
the good, and Andrew realised that he had made an 
enemy. 

As they walked back to Bayfield College, he gave 
his serious attention to the matter of his wardrobe. 
Besides the suit he was wearing, he had saved but 
one other from the maws of Mrs. Doubikin, and 
that was a dress-suit. He could not very well put on 
evening dress for tea, but his coat was fairly clean, 
so he decided to wear the trousers of his dress-suit, 
and his ordinary coat. 

It was impossible that this attire should escape the 
lambent wit of Mr. Herbert Petch. To the great de- 
light of Eddie, Bessie, and Charlie, he enquired elabo- 
rately whether Mr. Dick intended to visit the theatre 
that night, and, if so, whether he had secured the 
Royal Box. Andrew, quite aware of the fact that he 


MERRY-ANDREW 


220 

had coloured to the roots of his hair, replied as airily 
as possible that his other luggage had not yet arrived. 

“Why not make enquiries at the station about it?” 
suggested Mr. Herbert Petch, with a wink at the 
family in general. 

“I think I will,” replied Andrew very quietly, and 
Miss Lucy shot him a sympathetic little glance. 

As he was going up to his den after tea, he met her 
on the stairs. 

“Are you really going down to the railway-station ?” 
she asked, looking at the bannisters instead of at 
Andrew. 

“Yes, I think so. Why?” 

“Oh, nothing. Only I have to go down to the Tech- 
nical Institute, and I thought I might show you the 
way to the station in case you don’t know it.” 

“I should be awfully obliged if you would.” 

“All right. When will you be ready?” 

“I’m ready now. I’ve only got to get my hat and 
coat.” 

“Very well. I’ll be just outside.” 

They met at the corner, and boarded a tram. It 
was a fine evening, for a wonder, and Andrew was 
thankful to be without the walls of Bayfield College, 
and his own master for an hour or two. He felt much 
as a prisoner must feel who contrives to escape from 
his warders in a fog. He knows he will have to return 
to the prison ; he knows that this little burst of liberty 
is short-lived; he knows that he is not really a free 
man with a soul of his own; but it is good to get 
away from the word of command, from the eyes eter- 
nally watching his movements, from the prison walls, 


MERRY-ANDREW 


221 


and the routine, and the deadly atmosphere of servi- 
tude. 

That is just how Andrew felt as he rode on the top 
of a tram, by the side of Lucy Petch, towards the 
heart of the city of Floodington. He had only a few 
coppers in his pocket, and he would have to return 
to the supper of bread-and-butter and cold water, and 
the little camp-bed in the corner, but for an hour or 
two he could pretend to be free; for an hour or two 
he could pretend to be his own man, as much as the 
creature in rags with a bundle of newspapers under 
his arm, or the lordly owner of factories, rolling by in 
his thousand-guinea car. For an hour he was part 
and parcel of the life of this great city. He could 
look his fellowmen in the eyes without shame, for they 
did not know that he had gone to London to conquer 
the world with his pen, and had merely succeeded in 
saving himself from the workhouse by becoming a 
male nurse to small boys of seven in return for his 
food and a salary that his father’s cook would have 
laughed to scorn. For an hour he could pretend to be 
one of the world’s real workers ; for an hour he could 
pretend to himself that he was as successful as the 
clerks and mechanics who passed him on the tops of 
the home-going trams. 

“You are very thoughtful,” said Miss Lucy. 

“Am I?” 

“Awfully. Is there anything the matter?” 

“No, I don’t think so. Why do you ask?” 

“I only wondered. I heard Charlie say something 
to Herbert about some fuss on the football field.” 

“Oh ? Would it be wrong if I asked what he said ?” 

“No, I don’t see why you shouldn’t know. He said 


222 


MERRY-ANDREW 


that he had to send a boy off the field for imperti- 
nence, and that you disputed his authority, and made a 
scene. Of course, I don’t believe a word of it. I 
know Charlie too well for that. He’s an awful sneak, 
and a beastly bully, and a funk.” 

“You don’t seem to have an overpowering admira- 
tion for him.” 

“Have you?” 

“Oh, I know hardly anything about him yet.” 

“Well, you will. It all depends which side Herbert 
likes to take. He always takes which side suits him 
best. If you keep on good terms with Herbert, you’re 
all right, but if you don’t, he’ll give you a rotten time 
of it. The only person he’s afraid of is father, and 
we never complain to father because of his nerves. 
Herbert knows that, and so he has grown into a regu- 
lar little tyrant. We all get a turn of it, and I expect 
you will as well.” 

There was a great deal of independent spirit about 
Andrew. He had no money, no position in the world, 
and no prospects, but something that surged up within 
him as he listened to Lucy’s prophecy convinced him 
that he would never be able to knuckle under to Mr. 
Herbert Petch. At this particular state of his affairs, 
Mr. Herbert Petch represented in a concrete form a 
world that was hitting Andrew, and trying to deal him 
a knock-out blow. 

“Thanks for the warning,” he said, laughingly, as 
they were about to part. “I’m not really very fright- 
ened.” 

Lucy looked at him with eyes full of admiration. 
“How splendid it must be,” she said, quite unconscious 
of the irony, “to be a man!” 


CHAPTER V 


SHOWS YOUNG MR. PETCH IN A TOGA, AND ANDREW 
BENEATH A STREET-LAMP WITH CALPURNIA 

A FEW days later, Herbert Petch had an an- 
nouncement to make which caused a great 
deal of excitement in the little world of Bay- 
field College. It was the custom to give an entertain- 
ment in conjunction with the presentation of prizes 
at the end of the Christmas term. This year Mr. 
Petch wished to do something to mark the progress — 
the deserved progress, for Mr. Petch was an honest 
man, and gave good value for the small fees he ex- 
acted — of Bayfield College. Herbert Petch had gath- 
ered that Andrew was fairly experienced in the matter 
of amateur theatricals, and he had therefore sug- 
gested to his father that they should take advantage 
of Andrew’s presence to do certain scenes of a play 
by Shakespeare. The play selected for this signal 
honour was “Jtdi us Caesar,” and the principal parts 
had been roughly cast as follows: 

Julius Caesar Mr. Springbelt. 

Marcus Antonius Master Eddie Petch. 

Marcus Brutus Mr. Herbert Petch. 

Cassius Master Edgar Henn. 

Calpurnia Miss Lucy Petch. 

Portia Miss Jessie Green. 

With splendid generosity, Mr. Herbert Petch an- 
nounced that he would entrust the task of rehearsing 
223 


224 MERRY-ANDREW 

the play to Andrew. Every detail would be under 
Andrew’s care, and even he himself, the great Her- 
bert, would submit himself to Andrew’s directions 
during rehearsal. For the sake of his dignity, Her- 
bert suggested that he could have made a very much 
better job of the business himself than Andrew was 
likely to achieve, but he was really too busy with his 
reading for Ordination to take any considerable part 
in the play, and he would therefore content himself 
with the comparatively insignificant role of Brutus. 

Miss Jessie Green was the sister of the boy Green 
who had come into collision with Charlie Petch on 
the football field. Andrew had not yet seen her, but 
she was said to be a strikingly beautiful girl, and the 
closest possible friend of Miss Lucy Petch. 

The performance was to take place in the Bayfield 
Hall on the last night of the term, and a crowded 
audience was expected, consisting of parents and other 
relations of the pupils. There would be two or three 
rehearsals a week, and these would be held in the big 
schoolroom. The scenery would be mainly composed 
of curtains, and the costumes would be made at 
home. 

On the evening fixed for the first rehearsal, Andrew 
went across the playground to the big schoolroom, 
with a feeling that amounted almost to elation. He 
had a genuine passion for everything connected with 
the stage — not the mere infatuation through which all 
young people pass, but a deep and instinctive love for 
the art of the theatre. The movement of the curtain 
concealing the stage from the audience was a great 
deal more to him than the excitement born of mys- 
tery; the curtains were the definite dividing line be- 


MERRY-ANDREW 


225 

tween the small world that illustrates, and illuminates, 
and interprets life, and the great world upon which 
this art is lavished, and for which these dainties 
are prepared. His taste lay in the direction of realism. 
Fantasy and romance were well enough in their way, 
just as coloured picture-books were well enough in 
their way; but he could not bring himself to believe 
that fantasy and romance were the highest function of 
the theatre. His thoughts on the subject, naturally 
enough, were not very definite as yet, but his artistic 
impulse was all for the realistic reflection of actual 
life — not merely the external forms and shapes of 
life, but the inner meanings, the emotions, the in- 
fluence of the whole social pageant upon those who 
are forced to take part in it, and the reciprocal action 
of men and women upon each other. 

We are all at our best when we are most keenly 
interested, and Andrew felt that this production of 
scenes from “Jtdi us Caesar” was going to give him 
an opportunity which he needed. He had not made 
any very brilliant showing in London, and his experi- 
ences up to the present as a schoolmaster had not 
tended to raise his self-esteem; but here was some- 
thing that he knew he could tackle with a fair amount 
of confidence, and he was determined to throw him- 
self heart and soul into the work. That was why his 
pulse beat more quickly than usual as he entered the 
schoolroom, and found himself face to face with his 
company. 

Mr. Springbelt, his hair very much brushed, was 
pacing to and fro at the far end of the room, a large 
copy of the complete works of Shakespeare in his 
right hand. Every now and then, he would raise his 


226 


MERRY-ANDREW 


left hand high above his head, twirl it round sharply, 
and then point fixedly at a spider’s web in the corner 
of the room. 

“Who is it in the press that calls on me ?” muttered 
Mr. Springbelt excitedly. “I hear a tongue, shriller 
than all the music, cry, 'Caesar !’ ” 

Charlie Petch, a vacuous grin on his plump counte- 
nance, was standing in a characteristic attitude with 
his back to the stove, and Herbert Petch was talking 
in his kindest way to Miss Jessie Green and his sister 
Lucy — more to the former, of course, than to the lat- 
ter. There were also present some thirty or forty of 
the boys, who had been pressed into the service in 
order to form a stage crowd, and also to please as 
many fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, uncles, and 
aunts as might be. 

“Ah,” cried the vivacious Herbert, “here is Henry 
Irving at last!” 

Having collected the suitable titter that followed 
this little pleasantry, he introduced Andrew to Miss 
Jessie Green. Miss Green was not precisely a strik- 
ingly beautiful girl, but she had a pleasant face, brown 
hair, and a healthy complexion. Looking at her solely 
with the eye of a producer, Andrew could not persuade 
himself that she would make an ideal Portia, any more 
than he expected Miss Lucy Petch to be an ideal Cal- 
pumia, or Mr. Herbert Petch an ideal Marcus Bru- 
tus, or Mr. Springbelt an ideal Julius Caesar. How- 
ever, he would make the best of the material provided 
for him. 

A place was soon cleared to represent the stage, 
and desks arranged to form entrances and exits. A 
certain number of boys were then selected to form the 


MERRY-ANDREW 


227 


rabble of citizens and the rehearsal began with the 
second scene of Act I. Mr. Herbert Petch promptly 
ran his blue pencil through the first ten lines, which 
he considered grossly improper. Andrew did not ar- 
gue the point, but he wondered how much of Shake- 
speare's work would be allowed to escape the stern 
pencil of the immaculate Herbert. 

If ever a man could be said to attack a part, that 
man was Mr. Springbelt. He had evidently read 
somewhere, or been told, that the successful actor 
must throw himself into his part, and Mr. Springbelt 
acted upon this advice with an energy that was almost 
appalling. He tossed his head, he waved his arms, 
he rolled his eyes, and, more than all, at the end of 
every sentence he flung his right hand over his left 
shoulder with a tremendous sweeping gesture. 

“Excuse me,” said Andrew, when Mr. Springbelt 
had performed this feat for the twentieth time, “but 
would you mind telling me why you do that ?” 

“Do what?” piped Mr. Springbelt. 

“Why do you keep on throwing something over 
your left shoulder as if you were feeding chickens?” 

“Oh,” explained Mr. Springbelt, with animation, 
“that’s my toga. You see, togas are always falling off, 
and you have to keep on putting them into place. 
Besides, it gives one something to do.” 

“That’s an excellent idea,” Andrew agreed, “but I 
fancy that the audience will get a little restive if you 
replace your toga quite so much ; and, anyhow, it’s a 
little early to add these finishing touches to your per- 
formance. If I were you, I’d concentrate your atten- 
tion on getting the lines and positions. The finishing 
touches can come afterwards.” 


<M8 MERRY-ANDREW 

“Well,” interposed Mr. Herbert Petch, “I must say 
I don’t agree with you, Mr. Dick. It seems to me that 
the more one rehearses the finishing touches the better. 
I think it extremely clever of Mr. Springbelt to have 
thought of that business with the toga, and I mean to 
adopt it myself. As a matter of fact, I think we might 
all adopt it. Boys,” he added, “don’t forget that you 
will all be wearing togas in this play. You know 
what a toga is — a sort of long, loose wrap, fastened 
at the shoulder, and wound round the body. Just run 
indoors, Lucy, and fetch me a tablecloth.” 

Lucy trotted off, and presently returned with a 
large tablecloth, which Herbert Petch caused to be 
fastened with a safety-pin by one corner to the back 
of his coat. He then pulled the cloth across the front 
of him, and flung the loose end over his left shoulder. 
The boys, of course, shouted with merriment, but a 
fierce glance repressed them. Herbert Petch continued 
to wear the tablecloth throughout the rehearsal, and 
the others continued to throw imaginary togas over 
their left shoulders at intervals of ten or fifteen sec- 
onds. 

Andrew was in despair, but he thought it better 
to speak to Herbert privately than to risk a scene 
in front of the boys. One thing was quite certain 
— it must be definitely decided whether he had 
charge of the rehearsals or whether he had not. Two 
people could not possibly produce a play at one and the 
same time — although he was to learn later that this 
feat is often attempted in leading London theatres. 

The rehearsal proceeded, and Andrew presently dis- 
covered that his eyes would keep meeting the large 
brown eyes of Miss Jessie Green. Whenever this hap- 


MERRY-ANDREW 


229 


pened, they would both look away hastily, not to say 
guiltily, and Andrew would generally cast a furtive 
glance at Lucy to see whether she had observed the 
mutual attraction. Lucy, however, was far too ex- 
cited with the acting to have time for jealousy. Tak- 
ing her cue from Herbert, who remained glued to the 
centre of the stage whenever he was concerned in a 
scene, she lent the vitality of her Floodington consti- 
tution, and the arresting tones of her Floodington 
treble to the gentle Calpurnia, so that that lady pres- 
ently emerged from Shakespeare’s scheme as some- 
thing between Boadicea and a North Country lassie 
hailing an omnibus. 

When he felt that he had strutted and shouted suf- 
ficiently for one evening, Mr. Herbert Petch dismissed 
the rehearsal, and Andrew fully expected that he would 
offer up a short extempore prayer for the success of 
the entertainment. But this was not so. Herbert 
Petch told the boys to run home as fast as possible, 
and hurried into the house, leaving Mr. Springbelt 
to extinguish the lights. Charlie Petch, hands in 
pockets, sauntered after his brother, whilst Lucy Petch, 
with one arm wound affectionately round the waist of 
her dear friend, Miss Jessie Green, conducted Portia 
in safety to the gate of the playground. She then 
stole back to the schoolroom, where Mr. Springbelt 
was punctiliously turning out the gas, jet by jet, and 
testing each burner with his nose to make sure that 
the task had been properly accomplished. 

“Have all the others gone in?” asked Lucy. 

“Yes, Miss Lucy,” said Mr. Springbelt. 

But Mr. Springbelt was wrong. Andrew had not 
yet returned to the house. He was lurking in the 


MERRY-ANDREW 


230 

small classroom, with no particular design in his head, 
except that he was not quite ready for the allurements 
of thick bread-and-butter and cold water. As soon as 
Lucy had disappeared, he* stole out into the playground, 
and opened the gate through which Miss Jessie Green 
had recently passed. To his amazement, the young 
lady was standing on the other side of the gate. 

“Oh,” she said, “have you seen anything of my 
brother ?” 

“A good deal,” said Andrew, “one way and an- 
other.” 

“Don’t be silly,” replied Miss Green with a giggle. 

“I didn’t mean to be silly. I saw him in school 
this morning, and again this afternoon, and again 
on the football field. In fact, now I come to think 
of it, your brother has rather a way of being in evi- 
dence.” 

“He’s a cheeky little thing. I expect you have to 
snub him a good deal.” 

“I shouldn’t like to do that,” said Andrew. 

“Don’t be silly.” Miss Green giggled again. “I 
wish you’d tell me whether he’s gone home or not.” 

“I haven’t the least idea where he’s gone.” 

“Oh, you know what I mean. Has he left the 
school ?” 

“Yes, I think so, unless he’s hiding under one of 
the desks.” 

“You are too absurd — you really are ! Well, I sup- 
pose I must run home by myself.” 

She moved away a little, and Andrew followed, so 
that the door of the playground swung to behind him, 
and he was in the roadway. 

“Have you far to go?” 


MERRY-ANDREW 


231 


“No, not very far — only about three streets.” 

“Don’t you think it’s rather late for you to be walk- 
ing about alone?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Dickie ought to have waited 
for me. Still, it won’t take me very long to get home.” 

“I think I’d better see you as far as your door.” 

“Oh, no, you mustn’t do that.” 

“Why not?” 

“I don’t think it would do. You see, we hardly 
know each other at all.” 

“Perhaps,” said Andrew boldly, “we shall know each 
other better after I’ve seen you home.” 

“I don’t think you ought to talk to me like that,” 
simpered Miss Jessie, smiling up at him through the 
lamplight. 

“How would you like me to talk to you?” enquired 
Andrew, now pacing along at her side. 

“I don’t suppose you want to talk to me at all, do 
you ?” 

“Why do you say that?” 

“Well, you’ve got such a lot of people to talk to at 
Bayfield College.” 

“But that’s only in the way of work. I like to talk 
to you for pleasure.” 

“But don’t you talk to Lucy Petch for pleasure?” 

“Yes, in a way.” 

“How do you mean, in a way?” 

Andrew perceived that he must tread warily. He 
had been given quite clearly to understand that these 
two girls were great friends, and perhaps Miss Green 
had already been told of the ride on the tram-car. 

“Well, you see, I sometimes have to talk about school 
matters.” 


MERRY-ANDREW 


“Is that all you talk about ? That wasn’t what I was 
given to understand.” 

“Indeed? What were you given to understand?” 

“Oh, I mustn’t tell tales out of school.” 

“That wouldn’t be telling tales. Do tell me what 
she said.” 

“If I do, will you promise faithfully that you won’t 
tell her I told you?” 

“Faithfully.” 

“Well, she said that you were rather sweet on her.” 

Andrew was silent. He felt like a man who sud- 
denly finds himself proceeding faster than he had in- 
tended down a slippery road. 

“That shuts you up, doesn’t it?” enquired Miss 
Green gaily. 

“Not at all,” retorted Andrew. “I was merely 
rather taken aback.” 

“All the same, you know it’s true.” 

“Why do you think it’s true?” 

“Because Lucy’s so pretty. Nobody could help be- 
ing sweet on her if she wanted them to be.” 

“Then do you think she wants me to be?” 

“Oh, that’s asking.” 

“Asking something to which you don’t know the 
answer,” challenged Andrew. 

“Don’t I?” 

“No. I’m quite sure you don’t.” 

“All right, then. If I don’t, I don’t.” 

“Do you?” 

“You said I didn’t.” 

“I only said that to find out if you did. Do you?” 

“P’r’aps I do, and p’r’aps I don’t.” 

“That means you do. I think you might tell me.” 


MERRY-ANDREW 233 

“I’ve told you quite enough already. It isn’t fair 
to give away other girls’ secrets. This is our house; 
good-night.” 

"I think you might tell me,” persisted Andrew. 

“Perhaps I will some other time. Good-night.” 

“Why can’t you tell me now?” 

“Because Mother’s looking out of the window, 
silly!” And with that Miss Green skipped nimbly 
up the steps and entered the family nest. 

Andrew walked slowly back to Bayfield College. A 
susceptible young man, at a very impressionable age, 
he was quite attracted by Miss Jessie Green. It was 
true that she turned her toes in a little, but she had 
extremely nice eyes, and the element of flattery entered 
into the affair more than he realised. It was very flat- 
tering to have caught her looking at him at least a 
dozen times that evening, and he began to wonder 
whether she really had been waiting for her brother 
to escort her home. And yet, how could she possibly 
have known that he would come to the gate of the 
playground and open it? What made him go to the 
gate of the playground and open it? Had she willed 
him to do it? If she had, that would show a certain 
amount of power over him, and he did not quite relish 
the idea of any girl having power over him. Except, 
of course, Sylvia. That was quite different. He was 
absolutely staunch to Sylvia, but Sylvia was such a 
long way off, and he had not seen her for such a long 
time. 

And then there was little Lucy. Lucy was not so 
good-looking as Miss Jessie Green, but she had a very 
vivacious manner, and had really been extremely nice 
to him on the tram-car. And so Lucy had actually 


MERRY-ANDREW 


told Miss Green that he was sweet on her, and he 
suspected Lucy of having added that she was a little 
bit sweet on him! If he were not extremely adroit, 
things would get complicated at Bayfield College. 
None the less, life was getting more tolerable every 
day. As he paced slowly along, Andrew ticked off 
on his fingers the various items of interest that were 
at present making life endurable — 

(1) Miss Jessie Green, who had nice eyes, and a 
lot of brown hair. 

(2) Miss Lucy Petch, who thought that he was in 
love with her, and was perhaps prepared to be in love 
with him. 

(3) The rehearsals of “Julius Caesar.” 

(4) A letter due from Sylvia. 

(5) A feud with Charlie Petch, which ought to 
prove exciting. 

(6) A cheque due from “The Rag-Bag.” As soon 
as this arrived he intended to visit the two leading 
theatres in Floodington. 

They had all finished supper when he got back, and 
Mr. Herbert Petch was evidently primed for his 
nightly bout of devotion. He sat with his Bible and 
Prayer Book in front of him whilst Andrew hastily 
devoured two pieces of bread-and-butter, and gulped 
down a glass of water. Meanwhile, the whole family 
party, including Mr. Springbelt, remained wrapped in 
silence. Andrew realised that he had brought down 
upon himself the displeasure of the impeccable Her- 
bert. 

As soon as they were in their room, and Herbert 
had performed his astonishingly speedy toilet, he 


MERRY-ANDREW 


235 


looked at Andrew over the top of the bedclothes and 
said: 

“I ought to tell you, Mr. Dick, that my father does 
not like anyone to leave the house late at night except 
by special arrangement.” 

“All right,” said Andrew. 

“You appear to take the matter rather lightly, Mr. 
Dick. It is my duty to point out to you that you broke 
one of the rules of the house tonight. If I were to 
report the matter to my father, he would be seriously 
annoyed.” 

“If you want to know,” said Andrew, “I went about 
a hundred yards down the road for a breath of air.” 

“I have no desire to know where you went, or how 
far you went, or why you went ; the point is that you 
did go, and without speaking to me on the subject. 
I must ask you not to let it occur again.” 

“But you told me yourself,” Andrew protested, “that 
after school was over for the day, my time would be 
my own.” 

“Yes, and that’s perfectly true. But I didn’t say 
that we should like you to be wandering about the 
streets when we were expecting you to supper. If 
you wish to go to the theatre, or to a concert, or a 
lecture, that is another matter ; but to leave the prem- 
ises in a surreptitious manner late in the evening, 
without saying a word to anybody, and then to come 
back and offer no word of apology or explanation, is 
lowering my dignity in the eyes of my brothers and 
sisters, to say nothing of being in rather questionable 
taste.” 

“I don’t think I need any lessons in taste from you,” 
replied Andrew. “If it comes to a question of taste, 


MERRY-ANDREW 


236 

it was hardly in good taste on your part to ask me to 
conduct these rehearsals, and then to take advantage 
of your position to contradict everything I said.” 

“I didn’t contradict everything you said. I didn’t 
like the way in which you spoke to Mr. Springbelt, 
who is a very nervous and sensitive man, and so I took 
his part. That’s all.” 

“I merely spoke to Mr. Springbelt as I should speak 
to anybody else who is making a fool of himself at 
rehearsal, even yourself, if necessary.” 

“We won’t discuss this any more at present. You 
are evidently losing your temper, so the less said the 
better.” 

“I don’t care a solitary damn whether I’m losing my 
temper or not.” 

Herbert Petch sat straight up in his bed. “Did you 
use an oath, Mr. Dick?” he asked with a very set 
face. 

“I did,” replied Andrew, who felt very much better 
for having done so. 

“Then I must ask you never again to use an oath 
in my presence. Apart from the fact that I am your 
senior, and your employer, I am training myself to 
become a minister of the Church of England, and I 
consider it the very worst possible form for anyone 
to make use of bad language in the presence of a 
clergyman.” 

“So do I, but you don’t happen to be a clergyman 
yet.” 

“D.V.,” said Mr. Herbert Petch, “I very shortly 
shall be. I must therefore forbid you to use strong 
language of any kind in my presence, or in this house, 
or in my branch establishment.” 


MERRY-ANDREW 257 

“Thanks,” replied Andrew. “I suppose I may oc- 
casionally say ‘damn’ on the Common?” 

Mr. Herbert Petch, apparently oblivious of the fact 
that he was clad only in his underclothes, scrambled 
quickly out of bed, and knelt down by the side of it. For 
nearly a minute he remained in this position, his head 
buried in two not particularly clean hands. Then he 
rose, his" face very stern and set, scrambled back into 
bed, pulled the clothes over his head, and utterly re- 
fused to be drawn into any further conversation. 


CHAPTER VI 


HOW ANDREW BEARDED THE ELDER MR. PETCH IN HIS 
LAIR, AND BROUGHT ABOUT A PAINFUL SCENE 

N EXT morning there were two letters for An- 
drew — one containing the cheque for twenty- 
five shillings from “The Rag-Bag,” and the 
other from Sylvia enclosing a postal order for ten 
shillings, the proceeds of the bat and the racquet. 

“There are two things in your letter,” wrote Sylvia, 
“that made me quite cross with you when I read them. 
The first was, T suppose there is something in me 
which makes for failure/ You must never write that 
to me again. There is nothing in you which makes 
for failure — only everything which makes for splendid 
success. It is all the better that success has not come 
to you too quickly, because success of that kind very 
seldom lasts. 

“And the second thing that made me angry was, T 
hope you won't be too ashamed of me for having 
failed in my first attack on London.' Here is another 
thing that you must never repeat. I shall only 
be ashamed of you if you do something dishonour- 
able; I should never be ashamed of you for having 
failed. After all, we never know how many people 
fail who really deserve to succeed. I daresay there 
are thousands and thousands, but we only hear of 
the ones who succeed. Even if you are not one of 
238 


MERRY-ANDREW 


%&9 


those — which you certainly will be — it would never 
make the slightest difference to me. It is just you 
yourself that I care about, and as long as you are true 
to that self I ask nothing more, though I hope every- 
thing for your sake. 

“Whatever sort of school you are in, I know that 
you will do your best, and I know that they will all 
love you because nobody could help it. There !” 

For all Sylvia's confidence, Mr. Herbert Petch man- 
aged to help loving Andrew. As the days rolled on, 
Herbert grew more and more morose, not only with 
Andrew, but with the whole of his family. He would 
upbraid the gentle Pattie for twenty minutes daily 
if his shaving water was not placed upon his dressing- 
table at the precise moment when he required it. 
Half-a-dozen times a day he cuffed Eddie over the 
head, and threatened to report him to his father for 
some mysterious offence called “hanging round the 
shops." He jeered at Lucy for her little affectations, 
and flung her box of paints across the dining-room. 
He found fault with Charlie because bank-clerks had 
shorter hours than schoolmasters, and he girded at 
his patient mother if she happened to give somebody 
as good a cut from the joint as he received himself. 
All this, presumably, was excellent training for one 
who, D.V., would shortly be a minister of the Church 
of England. 

Andrew knew perfectly well that he was the cause 
of the change in the once sunny Herbert. The plain 
truth was that Herbert had become jealous of the new 
assistant. For some obscure reason, the boys had 
chosen to take a great fancy to Andrew. Whether 


MERRY-ANDREW 


240 

they liked his manner, or whether they found him less 
of a disciplinarian than Herbert Petch, the fact re- 
mained that they had obviously conspired to set An- 
drew on a pedestal. When the day came to elect a 
president of the football club, for instance, and the 
election was conducted by Mr. Herbert Petch in per- 
son, the ballot proclaimed that Andrew had been 
selected for the post by a large majority. True, Mr. 
Herbert Petch at once quashed the election, pointing 
out that he had been president for the past nine years, 
and that there were certain very excellent reasons why 
he should continue to be president; but that did not 
get away from the awkward fact that the boys would 
have preferred Andrew. 

Another very unpleasant incident arose out of a de- 
bating society started in the school by Herbert. The 
subject of the first debate was horseracing, and young 
Mr. Petch opened the debate by delivering a lengthy 
and quite dull sermon on the evils of horseracing. 
Andrew, who was present, did not wish to speak on 
the subject at all, but, after very great pressure from 
Mr. Herbert Petch, he rose and defended horseracing 
to the utmost of his ability. He knew nothing about 
the subject, and cared less. He could have spoken 
just as well against horseracing, but some little devil 
inside him rendered it absolutely impossible for him 
to be on the same side as the pious Herbert. He 
pointed out that the mere fact of bets being made on 
races had nothing whatever to do with the matter. 
The horses themselves did not bet; the horses were 
noble animals, who raced because they were born to 
race. They were the highest specimens of their breed, 
they were pure in thought, pure in intention, and an 


MERRY-ANDREW 241 

admirable example to the human race. In fact, con- 
cluded Andrew, if one went to a horserace with an 
open heart and an open mind, and watched the race 
for the pure love of the sport, as much benefit might 
be derived from that visit as from a visit to a church. 

Mr. Herbert Petch was on his feet in an instant, his 
face very white, very earnest, very rigid. “I must 
protest,” he said, “in the most forcible manner at my 
command, against the remarks that you have just 
heard. I am sure that Mr. Dick did not mean them, 
but this is a very dangerous subject on which to speak 
jestingly. I know that Mr. Petch would be extremely 
annoyed if he knew that such sentiments had been 
uttered in the presence of you boys. You may take it 
from me, boys, that horseracing is thoroughly bad, 
thoroughly vicious, and thoroughly degraded. I am 
not now taking part in any debate ; I am simply telling 
you, because I am older than you, and I don’t want 
you to go away with the idea that it can ever be right 
to attend a race-meeting. It is utterly wrong to do 
such a thing, and to mention horseracing in connection 
with going to church is a very serious mistake for 
anyone to have made, even though it were said in jest. 
I shall now end the debate, and we will all kneel down 
for a few minutes whilst I ask pardon for the words 
that have been uttered in our midst.” 

This incident was not calculated to strengthen An- 
drew’s authority with the boys, or to cement the breach 
between himself and Herbert. That breach widened 
daily, until at last the two, although occupying the 
same bedroom, and teaching in the same schoolroom 
for a certain number of hours every day, never ex- 
changed a single word. The situation, of course, was 


242 


MERRY-ANDREW 


wholly ridiculous, but it was not of Andrew's seek- 
ing. In point of fact, it made him very miserable. 

Young Mr. Petch, having humiliated Andrew over 
the football election and in the debating-room, next 
proceeded to do the same with the rehearsals. He 
utterly refused to pay the slightest attention to any 
suggestion made by Andrew, and he quickly over- 
ruled any suggestion that Andrew gave to the other 
members of the cast. There was nothing for it, there- 
fore, but that Andrew should retire altogether from 
the rehearsals, and this he did. Mr. Herbert Petch, 
glorying in his interpretation of Brutus, and serenely 
satisfied with himself as a producer, promptly took the 
whole burden upon his own shoulders. 

Andrew’s one real consolation, during these weeks 
of sordid bickering and unpleasantness, lay in the 
theatre. Floodington was a very large and prosperous 
town, and sported two first-class theatres, in addition 
to minor theatres and music-halls. The autumn was 
the time of year when the big managers gave of their 
best to provincial patrons, and Andrew was thus en- 
abled to witness productions played by leading actors 
and actresses, and mounted with all the panoply of 
the West End of London. For the sum of one shilling 
he could sit in the pit and allow his intellect to batten 
on the feast of wit and humour served up by the 
playwrights of the day. Happy evenings, these, 
wedged tightly amongst the enthusiastic Floodingto- 
nians, and forgetful for three hours or so even of 
Bayfield College. Once he was allowed to take Miss 
Pattie Petch as his companion, and on another occa- 
sion Miss Lucy Petch. He would have liked to escort’ 
Miss Jessie Green to the theatre, but he had not the 


MERRY-ANDREW 


243 


felicity of knowing her mother, and shrank from the 
interview which the invitation would probably have 
involved. He had not repeated the adventure of seeing 
Miss Green to her door, but he used to sit at the end 
of the schoolroom, when rehearsals were going for- 
ward, and temper a bitterly sardonic smile — at least, 
he hoped his smiles were bitterly sardonic — evoked 
by the bombastic blunderings of Herbert Petch, with* 
softly ardent glances through the gloom exchanged 
with Miss Green. 

Thus matters wore on until half the term was gone , 1 
and Andrew, although he had not been engaged for 
more than one term, felt that he ought to tell Mr. 
Petch that he could not return to Bayfield College. 
One evening, therefore, nervous but daring, he came 
out of his little den and knocked at the door of Mr. 
Petch’s room. Mr. Petch’s voice bade him enter. 

Mr. Petch was seated in an armchair in front of 
the fire, reading the local evening paper and smoking 
a cigar. He seemed surprised when Andrew entered, 
and even a little alarmed; but he put on a half-smile 
of welcome, and waved his hand towards a vacant 
chair. Andrew sat down. 

“You wish to speak to me about something, Mr. 
Dick?” 

“Yes, sir. As we have now arrived at the half-term, 
I thought I ought to tell you, as a matter of form, that 
I shall not be returning to Bayfield College next term. 
Of course,” he added hastily, “you may not want 

_ a 

me. 

Mr. Petch stared. His face gradually clouded over, 
and the blood rose to his temples. 

“I must say, Mr. Dick, I am very surprised by your 


244 


MERRY-ANDREW 


statement. May I ask why you have thought it neces- 
sary to make it ?” 

“Well, sir, I thought we ought to have a clear under- 
standing on the matter. I presume that you will be 
wanting to look out for somebody else.” 

“Certainly I shall have to look out for somebody 
else. At the same time, I should like your reasons 
for not wishing to return to us. I am quite satisfied 
with the way in which you discharge your duties, and 
I hoped that you were quite happy and contented with 
us.” 

“If you will excuse me, sir, I would rather not give 
my reasons.” 

Mr. Petch began to grow quite angry, and Andrew 
noticed with considerable apprehension that two veins 
on the forehead of his employer were protesting 
against the extra strain put upon them. 

“But I must insist upon having your reasons,” cried 
Mr. Petch, thumping the arm of his chair with his 
fist. “Here you walk into my room when I am read- 
ing my evening paper, and calmly inform me that you 
do not wish to return to this establishment, and yet 
you refuse to state your reasons. I presume you have 
a reason? I presume you have not suddenly gone out 
of your mind, Mr. Dick?” 

“No, sir, I have not, but, if I gave you my reasons, 
it would involve a third person, and that would not 
be quite fair.” 

“Not fair! D’you think it fair to me that things 
should be going on under my roof of which I am abso- 
lutely ignorant ? I take a very great pride in my school, 
Mr. Dick, and it is a serious blow to me that a young 
man can come here for seven weeks or so, and then 


MERRY-ANDREW 


245 


definitely decide that he will not return under any 
conditions whatever. Is it a matter of salary ?” 

“No, sir, it’s nothing to do with salary.” 

“Do you object to your work?” 

“Not exactly to the work.” 

“Oh, now we’re getting at it. Is it to the conditions 
of the work that you object, Mr. Dick?” 

“Well, sir, since you put it in that way, I must 
admit that it is the conditions.” 

“Come, come! Let us be a little more definite. 
What is there about the conditions under which you 
do your work to which you object so violently? Are 
the hours too long? I think you get plenty of time 
to yourself?” 

“Yes, sir, I get plenty of time to myself. In fact, I 
get almost too much time to myself.” 

A light suddenly seemed to break upon the elder 
Mr. Petch. He gripped the arms of his chair very 
firmly — so firmly that the blood receded from his 
nails, and probably went up into his forehead. Draw- 
ing down his iron-grey eyebrows as far as they would 
go, he leant towards Andrew, and said in a voice that 
was really hoarse with suppressed rage: “Is it any- 
thing to do with Herbert?” 

“I would rather not answer that question, sir.” 

“But I insist upon an answer. I will not have things 
going on under my roof of which I am totally un- 
aware. Once again, Mr. Dick, has it anything to do 
with my eldest son ?” 

“Well, sir, I had no intention of mentioning the mat- 
ter, but since you insist upon an answer, I must admit 
that we are not on speaking terms.” 


246 


MERRY-ANDREW 


“Not on what?” roared Mr. Petch, unable to re- 
press his furious indignation any longer. 

“Speaking terms,” replied Andrew. 

“D’you mean to say that my son works in the same 
room with you, and yet you don’t speak to one an- 
other ?” 

“I’m afraid that’s quite true, sir. I daresay,” added 
Andrew, anxious to avoid the painful scene which 
now seemed almost inevitable, “it’s as much my fault 
as his.” 

“Nonsense !” roared Mr. Petch. “Herbert is a good 
deal older than you, and he is your senior in the 
school as well. This is his home, and you come to 
it as a stranger. It is perfectly monstrous that he 
should be behaving in this way, and I shall sift the 
matter to the bottom here and now.” 

It was too late to stem the torrent. Mr. Petch rose 
from his chair and violently rang the bell. Pattie 
came running to answer it, and the scared expression 
on her face was intensified when she saw Andrew 
sitting there. 

“Send Herbert to me at once.” 

Whilst they were waiting for Herbert, Mr. Petch 
walked up and down the room in short angry strides, 
muttering to himself all the time: 

“Not on speaking terms! I’ll show him! I’ll give 
him speaking terms! The young cub! The ill-man- 
nered rascal! Oxford, indeed! / had no university 
education ! So this is what it does for a man ! Speak- 
ing terms ! I’ll speak to him in terms that he won’t 
forget ! Young viper ! Poltroon ! Toad !” 

At this point, Herbert Petch tapped at the door. 


MERRY-ANDREW 247 

“Come in !” shouted his father in a tone that would 
have terrified an enraged bullock. 

Herbert Petch entered, and Andrew felt extremely 
sorry for the little fellow directly he caught sight of 
him. His face was quite white; all the stubbornness, 
all the self-complacence had vanished from it ; he was 
reduced to the level of an ordinary human being, and 
a very abject human being at that. 

“You wish to speak to me, sir?” 

“Yes, sir, I do. Shut the door. We will go straight 
to the point. It is not my custom to beat about the 
bush. Mr. Dick, here, tells me that he will not be 
returning to Bayfield College next term. I asked him 
for his reason, and he told me, very unwillingly, that 
you and he are not on speaking terms. Is that true ?” 

Herbert kept his little eyes fixed steadily on the 
face of his father. There was an expression of en- 
treaty in them very pitiable to see. 

“I should like to explain the whole circumstances 
of the case,” he began. 

“Never mind the whole circumstances of the case,” 
retorted Mr. Petch. “Those will do later. I know 
you’ve got the gift of the gab, but I don’t want it 
just at the moment. I want a straightforward answer 
to my question. Are you on speaking terms with Mr. 
Dick, or are you not?” 

“Well, sir, we haven’t been talking very much to 
each other just lately, but ” 

“I don’t want any of your ‘buts’ ! How long is it, 
Mr. Dick, since you and my son exchanged a single 
word ?” 

“I should think about a week,” replied Andrew. It 


248 MERRY-ANDREW 

was nearer three weeks, but he was tempering the wind 
to the trembling lamb. 

“Indeed? A week, eh? And so for a whole week 
this ridiculous nonsense has been going on, and all 
the boys must have noticed it, to say nothing of every- 
body in the house being made uncomfortable ! I don’t 
blame you, Mr. Dick ; as I told you before, Herbert is 
much older than you, and this is his home, and he is 
the senior master. Now, Herbert, my friend, just you 
listen to me. You’ve not been my son six-and-twenty 
years for nothing. I’ve got a temper, but it’s a quick 
temper, and I generally manage to control it. You’ve 
got a temper, too, but it’s a beastly sulky temper. It 
goes on for days and weeks. I thought I’d thrashed it 
out of you, but I find I haven’t. If I did as I felt 
inclined to do, I should take my cane out of that 
cupboard, and break it over your back!” Mr. Petch 
actually took a step or two towards the cupboard as 
though he intended to gratify the desire; but he 
stopped in time. 

“And I will break it over your back, schoolmaster 
or no schoolmaster, graduate or no graduate, parson 
or no parson, unless you mend your ways and treat 
Mr. Dick as he ought to be treated. I don’t want to 
hear anything more about the matter. I’ve told you 
what I think, and I mean it, every word. Now you 
can go.” 

Herbert Petch turned, and crept meekly from the 
room. 

“Now, Mr. Dick,” continued Mr. Petch, “I think you 
will have no further trouble in that quarter. I like 
everybody in my house to be happy. I can’t bear the 
thought that anybody is not happy. You will oblige 


MERRY-ANDREW 249 

me very much if you will make it your business to be 
happy for the remainder of the term. And just give 
the matter a little consideration, and see whether you 
cannot return to us after the Christmas holidays. ,, 

He returned to his chair, and took up the paper with 
hands that trembled a little. 

Andrew went back to his den, and dropped a line to 
Mr. McKechnie. He liked Mr. Petch well enough, 
but he knew that he could never again believe in the 
sincerity of Herbert Petch, however that young gentle- 
man might smirk and smarm. 


CHAPTER VII 


PROVES ONCE AGAIN THE BALEFUL INFLUENCE OF THE 
THEATRE UPON YOUTHFUL MINDS 

HE long term gradually drew to an end, and 



little was talked of but the play. Herbert 


Petch had become extremely cordial in his 
manner, and prevailed upon Andrew, at the last mo- 
ment, to stage-manage. So Andrew found himself 
with the whole responsibility of the show upon his 
shoulders after all. 

It went off surprisingly well. Brutus preached, and 
Anthony piped, and Caesar twitched, and Calpurnia 
sang, and Portia trilled, and the crowd yelped, and 
the friends and relations in front clapped their hands 
till they were sore, and wept tears of delight. There 
never was such a night! There was Mr. Petch in his 
blackest coat shaking hands with everybody, and beam- 
ing at everybody as though life were one huge bed of 
roses! And there was Mrs. Petch, in her best silk 
gown, and her sweetest smile, pouring out coffee and 
lemonade, and cutting cake, and keeping a watchful 
eye on the pile of sandwiches lest the boys should de- 
vour them instead of the parents. There was Mr. 
Herbert Petch, bang in the centre of the stage, flinging 
his toga about, and bowing to the audience after each 
scene as though he had written the play all out of his 
own dear little head, and could write another dozen 


MERRY-ANDREW 251 

such with a turn of the wrist. And there was Charlie 
Petch, in one of his father’s coats, much too small for 
him, and one of his father’s white waistcoats with 
two buttons missing, and a pair of white gloves that 
had split all across the palm when he was putting them 
on, and his hair standing quite straight up in front. 
And there was Miss Pattie Petch, fagging about with 
plates of sandwiches and cups of coffee, and saying 
the right thing to everybody, and yet finding time, 
every now and again, to visit one corner of the room 
where a young man with a very knowing look and an 
insufficient knowledge of auctioneering was lolling 
languidly against the wall. And there was Miss Bessie 
Petch, in a pair of very long black stockings, and a 
very uncomfortable little white dress that stuck ouf 
all around her knees, sitting in the very middle of 
the front row, tossing her hair about, and generally 
realising the importance of her position as the daughter 
of the headmaster. There was Mr. Springbelt, clad 
in a huge white counterpane, and far happier than the 
real Julius Caesar could ever have been in his life, 
strutting to and fro, with his head very much to one 
side, and tumbling over his toga, and having such 
wonderful spasms on the stage that the audience went 
away fully convinced that he was ever so much mad- 
der than Hamlet. And there was Miss Jessie Green, 
standing in a remote corner with her face turned up 
to Andrew, gazing straight into his eyes whilst he 
applied huge quantities of blue grease-paint to her 
eyebrows and eyelashes, with a hand that trembled 
very much from his emotion at being so near to so 
much loveliness. 


252 MERRY-ANDREW 

And the Dean made a speech, and Mr. Petch made 
a speech, and Herbert Petch made a speech, and every- 
body was extremely delighted with himself. And the 
reporters of the local papers made little marks in their 
note-books which, being transcribed, informed the 
world of Floodington that “where all acquitted them- 
selves so ably it would be invidious to mention any 
names in particular/’ and thus saved themselves a 
great deal of trouble, and gave pleasure all round. 

At last it was over, and Andrew found himself in 
a rather dark passage with Miss Jessie Green, who was 
still dressed as Portia, save that she had on an ordi- 
nary hat in place of her little coronet. In her arms 
she had a large bundle which contained her usual 
clothes. 

“How are you going home?” asked Andrew. 

“I’m going to walk up with Father and Mother. I 
think they’re waiting for me at the front entrance.” 

“I don’t think so. There’s nobody at the front en- 
trance. They’ve all gone.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Well, I’m nearly sure.” 

“I don’t believe you know anything about it.” 

“I know that I’m leaving Floodington tomorrow, 
and that we may never meet again.” 

“That will be a great trial for you, won’t it?” 

“I shall be awfully sorry — for some things.” 

“What things?” 

“Well, there are some people in Floodington I should 
like to see again.” 

“Really?” Miss Jessie Green carefully examined 
the corner of her parcel. 


MERRY-ANDREW 


253 


“Let me carry that parcel for you, will you?” 

“Oh, please don’t trouble. Father will carry it.” 

“But your father has gone on — I’m sure he has. 
We’d better slip out by the side door. Come on !” 

So they slipped out by the side door, and were pres- 
ently walking through the quiet streets. They did not 
say very much, for Andrew was screwing himself up 
for a very daring step. He was trying to make up 
his mind to steal a kiss from Jessie. He had never 
kissed her yet, but he felt that it would be a pusillani- 
mous thing to leave Floodington without kissing such 
a very charming girl. He had a vague sort of notion, 
too, that Miss Jessie rather expected to be kissed, 
and that she would entertain but a poor opinion of 
him if he did not kiss her. At the same time, he knew 
quite well that she would resist the kiss when it came 
to the point, and that he would have to use strategy to 
effect his purpose neatly and quietly. 

He was still carrying her large parcel. When they 
arrived at the front gate of Mr. Green’s house, there 
were lights within, but all the curtains were drawn. 
Andrew gave the parcel to Jessie, and she held it in 
her arms. This was the moment for which he had 
schemed. 

“Goodbye,” said Andrew. 

“Goodbye,” replied Jessie. 

“You will write to me, won’t you?” 

“If you write to me first.” 

“Very well. Goodbye.” 

She was just going to turn away; it must be now 
or never. He leant forward, placed his hands on her 
shoulders, and imprinted a kiss that was almost fra- 
ternal in its chastity upon her cheek. Then he turned 


254, 


MERRY-ANDREW 


quickly, and walked away down the empty street, feel- 
ing that he was a very desperate and dashing fellow 
indeed. 

Lucy opened the door to him, still dressed as Cal- 
purnia, her cheeks unnaturally red from the rouge 
liberally applied by Andrew 

“You are late!” she whispered. “What on earth 
have you been doing ?” 

“There were one or two little things that had to be 
seen to,” replied Andrew. 

“Yes, I daresay!” retorted Lucy in her most arch 
manner. 

“You look awfully nice,” observed Andrew. 

“I don’t believe you mean it.” 

“I do— really I do. . . . Where are all the others ?” 

“Having supper. Father’s there as well. We’d 
better hurry in.” 

“Why?” 

“Oh, because they’ll think things.” 

“What will they think ?” 

“Oh, I don’t know, silly. Come along.” 

“Wait a moment.” 

Lucy turned and looked up at him. Did she, too, 
expect to be kissed? It would be a tremendous ac- 
complishment to have kissed them both in the space 
of ten minutes. Besides, it was hardly fair to kiss 
Jessie and leave little Lucy out in the cold. 

Thus Andrew argued with himself, but such ar- 
guments will not excuse him in the opinions of a 
virtuous and stainless world. Let it be merely re- 
corded, therefore, that he put his arm about Lucy’s 
shoulders, and kissed her in precisely the same manner 


MERRY-ANDREW 255 

as he had kissed her greatest friend. Lucy, secure 
in the knowledge that her blushes could never be de- 
tected under so much rouge, danced into the supper- 
room, followed at a sober pace by the criminal An- 
drew. 


CHAPTER VIII 


MR. WEEVILL ON THE WEEVILL FAMILY, AND HIGH LIFE 
AT WARWICK HALL 

W HEN Andrew left Floodington, he had just 
enough money in his pockets — the residue 
of a salary that had been steadily en- 
croached upon by his need for the playhouse — to 
tide him over the Christmas holidays. Sylvia had 
begged him to spend Christmas with her mother and 
herself, but Andrew had replied that he would not 
show himself in his native place until he could go 
down there crowned with success. He would have 
liked to accept the invitation for many reasons; it 
would have been good to get back to the old life 
for a little while, and to sit next to Sylvia in the old 
church, and to sing the Christmas hymns, and join in 
the dances and general merriment of the district where 
he was so well known. But, on the other hand, he 
would have to run the gauntlet of all kinds of ques- 
tions; everybody would want to know how he was 
getting on in London, and for which papers he was 
writing, and where he lived. Then he would have to 
confess his failure, and explain that he was merely an 
almost penniless usher instead of a successful literary 
man. He shied at the thought, and made up his mind 
to four weeks beneath the roof of Mrs. Doubikin. 
That lady was delighted to see him, and could ac- 
256 


MERRY-ANDREW 257 

commodate him in his old room at the old terms. 
She would have dearly loved to take him in for noth- 
ing, this being Christmas time, but her duty to Mr. 
Doubikin absolutely forbade such generosity. Mr. 
Doubikin had not been at all himself. He had been 
out late at nights once or twice, and was now suffering 
from the effects of a fast life. The doctor had or- 
dered him port wine, a beverage to which Mrs. Doubi- 
kin was apparently rather partial herself. Andrew 
enquired after her heart, and was sorry to learn that 
it grew feebler every day, and that she had more than 
once been compelled to sit on the kitchen stairs for 
half-an-hour before she could get either up or down. 
Nothing but her duty to Mr. Doubikin prevented her 
from taking to her bed, and spending the remainder 
of her life in the luxurious ease of a sick-room. 

The cheerful Jane was still in Mrs. Doubikin’s 
service, and conducted Andrew to his attic just as she 
had done before. When they reached the top landing, 
she confided to him that all his shirts and nice clothes 
had been taken to the pop-shop, and that her master 
and mistress had kept high festival in the kitchen 
for three weeks after Andrew’s departure. As for 
Mr. Foottit and Mr. Crichton, she, the cheerful Jane, 
had never set eyes on those gentlemen since the day 
they left so hurriedly, but it was her belief that they 
were not so very far off, and that some folks could 
walk straight to the spot with their eyes shut — that 
is to say, when they were in a condition to walk 
straight anywhere. As for cheerful Jane herself, she 
had been thinking of getting married, but had hesi- 
tated on the very brink because she could not make 
up her mind whether the young man in the fried fish 


258 MERRY-ANDREW 

shop really loved her for herself, or whether he had 
in some way discovered that she had fourteen shillings 
wrapped up in a flannel petticoat at the bottom of her 
trunk. 

The next morning, Andrew called at the offices of 
Mr. McKechnie, and was received by that gentleman 
with a passionate fervour almost startling in its in- 
tensity. 

“Left Petch? ,, cried Mr. McKechnie. “My dear 
sir, of course you left Petch ! I never thought you’d 
care for a school of that stamp, but you would go! 
You know very well that you stood here and told me 
to my face that you insisted on going to Bayfield Col- 
lege! Now you see the result. Here you are, back 
again from the North, complaining to me that you had 
a miserable term of it! Another time, perhaps, you 
will be guided by one very much older than yourself. 
I know exactly what you want. You want charming 
surroundings, palatial if possible, but at the very least 
charming! You want a house of distinction in the 
country, people of taste and refinement all about you. 
An atmosphere of aristocratic England ! Well, I have 
the very thing. Just run your eye over this.” 

He produced a letter from a gentleman of the name 
of Weevill, who wrote from Warwick Hall, Brent- 
ford. Mr. Weevill wanted a young man, a graduate 
of Oxford or Cambridge preferred, excellent at games, 
with some experience as a schoolmaster, patient, good- 
tempered, of refined appearance, well-dressed, of gen- 
tle birth, and fond of music. To such a person Mr. 
Weevill offered, in return for his exclusive services, 
board and lodging at Warwick Hall, Brentford, and 
a salary of twenty-five pounds per annum. Mr. Wee- 


MERRY-ANDREW 


259 

vill could guarantee a very happy home, the Weevill 
family being particularly high-spirited, and himself a 
man bubbling over with the joy of life. His pupils 
were all charming little fellows, with exquisite man- 
ners, and hearts of gold. 

“I know Weevill,” said Mr. McKechnie. “He al- 
ways comes to me for his masters. Thorough man of 
the world, Weevill. You’ll learn more schoolmaster- 
ing from him in a week than you would from most 
of these duffers in ten years. I should strongly advise 
you to go to Warwick Hall if you can secure the post. 
Charming country house standing in its own grounds. 
Built by a man of great artistic taste who went bank- 
rupt. Weevill jumped in and nabbed it. Just the 
place for a school — Brentford. Bracing, close to Lon- 
don, Kew Gardens, splendid tram service, grand water. 
I’ll tell Weevill to meet you here the day after to- 
morrow. You’ll like him enormously. Good-morn- 

• _ a 

mg. 

Mr. Weevill and Andrew duly met in the dark little 
room at the back of Mr. McKechnie’s office. Mr. 
Weevill was a very small man, very thin, with a ragged, 
iron-grey moustache, and bow legs. He had spent a 
great portion of his early life in a tropical climate, 
and all his flesh had been melted off him never to 
return. His greatest ambition in life was to be mis- 
taken for a sporting squire. To this end, he habitu- 
ally clothed himself in tweed knickerbocker suits with 
an enormous pattern. The suits were extremely baggy 
— so baggy that Mr. Weevill was able to move about 
inside them rather like a cat under a hearthrug. He 
wore brown boots, a brown bowler hat, and carried 
a smart little cane. 


260 MERRY-ANDREW 

“Good morning,” he said to Andrew, rising and 
carrying the large suit across the room and then back 
to his chair again. “I suppose my friend McKechnie 
told you all about Warwick Hall?” 

“Mr. McKechnie mentioned that you had a very 
nice house.” 

“Yes, it’s a nice enough house in its way. Compared 
with the majority of private schools, I suppose you 
might call it a palace. There are many little improve- 
ments that one would like to carry out; as a matter 
of fact, I’ve been thinking of pulling it all down and 
rebuilding it on a plan of my own. The trouble is 
to know what to do with the boys in the meantime. 
Are you fond of games, Mr. Dick?” 

The wily Andrew pumped up a spuriously enthusi- 
astic grin. 

“That’s right. I like my men to be crack athletes. 
My son, of course, is a champion in several depart- 
ments. His health is not all that it might be, or he 
would certainly have won the lawn tennis champion- 
ship two or three years ago, and he is the equal of 
any of the finest golf players in the kingdom. His 
batting average is generally somewhere about ninety, 
he is a remarkably fine bowler, and nobody can touch 
him at all on the football field. Then he holds various 
records for running, jumping, and the like. You’ve 
probably often seen his name in the papers — Christo- 
pher Conrad Weevill?” 

Andrew was compelled to confess that the name had 
escaped him. 

“Good gracious!” cried Mr. Weevill. “That’s an 
extraordinary thing! Up to a few years ago, Chris- 
topher’s name was a household word throughout the 


MERRY-ANDREW 


261 


length and breadth of the land. He’s such a modest 
fellow, though, you could never get him to consent to 
an interview, not even in the 'Times.’ I often begged 
him to exploit himself a little more, if only for the 
sake of the school; not a bit of it. I understand you 
do a little writing, Mr. Dick?” 

“Just a very little,” said Andrew. 

“Ah. You must get my daughter Patricia to give 
you a few hints about writing. Most marvellous girl ! 
I suppose there’s nothing that girl couldn’t achieve if 
she set her mind to it. Wrote a five-act play when 
she was ten years old — wrote the whole thing in less 
than a week. Her mother and I were really quite 
anxious about her, her brain worked so quickly. You’lb 
hardly believe it, Mr. Dick, but we had to keep her 
under morphia for weeks at a time to stop her brain 
working. The only possible way to save her reason, so 
the specialist said. She wanted to go to Girton; the 
specialist absolutely forbade anything of the kind. 
They said there was no doubt she would carry every- 
thing before her, but it would certainly be at the cost 
of her health. She writes poems now in her spare 
time — beautiful little things — make me cry like a child. 
I’ve sat up quite late at night, when everybody else 
was in bed and asleep, crying bitterly over Patricia’s 
poems. One of the leading publishers offered her a 
thousand pounds down for a volume, but she refused 
it. I agreed with her there. Her poems are much 
too fine to be scattered broadcast for any Tom, Dick 
or Harry to read. Ever do any hunting, Mr. Dick?” 

Andrew said that he had occasionally hunted in a 
very mild way. 

“Passion of my life,” explained Mr. Weevill. <f Hunt- 


MERRY-ANDREW 


262 

ing, jumping, steeplechasing, anything on a horse. 
When I was in India, I used to live on horseback. I 
mean literally. I’ve been in the saddle for days on 
end — eating, drinking, even sleeping in the saddle. 
We used to travel hundreds of miles in that way, my- 
self and one or two chums. Shooting, of course, all 
the time. I bagged seventeen lions to my own gun 
one trip. Ever shot any lions, Mr. Dick?” 

Andrew replied that he had never even seen a lion, 
except in cages. 

“People in this country,” said Mr. Weevill, “have 
an extraordinary idea about lions. They really think 
that the lion is a fierce and dangerous animal. Nothing 
further from the truth. The lion is merely a su- 
perior sort of dog, and you can get them to come when 
you whistle, and eat biscuits out of your hand. I had 
a tame lion of my own in India — one that I wounded 
out shooting, and brought home and tamed. Chris 
and Patricia used to ride on his back. You’d have 
roared with laughter to see those little monkeys riding 
about on a lion, pulling his ears, digging their little 
heels into him. Oh, yes, most affectionate and domes- 
ticated animal, the lion, if you know how to handle 
him. But this is all by the way. I merely wished to 
give you an idea of life at Warwick Hall. The con- 
versation round our supper-table, although I say it 
myself, is probably the most brilliant either in or out 
of London. You have myself as the authority on all 
field sports ; my son as the authority on athletics ; my 
daughter as the authority on literature and the drama. 
And then there’s my wife — have I mentioned my wife, 
Mr. Dick?” 


MERRY-ANDREW 


263 


Mr. Dick assured him that he had not mentioned 
Mrs. Weevill. 

“Mrs. Weevill is really a very remarkable woman. 
Her knowledge of medicine and surgery is equal to 
that of the finest doctors in the land. Mrs. Weevill can 
bandage you, poultice you, drug you, or stitch you up 
with unerring precision and the most delicate touch 
conceivable. What I owe to Mrs. Weevill nobody 
knows but myself. Well, Mr. Dick, I’ve taken a great 
fancy to you, and I think you are just the sort of 
young man that I want. How would you like to try 
a term at Warwick Hall ?” 

“The only question is,” said Andrew, “about the 
salary. Twenty-five pounds a year is not really a 
very vast sum, is it?” 

“Yes and no,” replied Mr. Weevill. “If you take 
twenty-five sovereigns, and lay them out on a table, 
and ask me if that is a vast sum, I reply most em- 
phatically in the negative. It is not a vast sum. It is 
a paltry sum. It is a sum that I would not offer to a 
gentleman on any consideration whatever. If I 
thought that you were coming to me for the sake of 
the salary that I was going to pay you, I should insist 
on naming four times that amount. I should say one 
hundred a year, and not a penny less; but you are 
not coming to me for the sake of the salary. You are 
coming to me, in the first place, because you are a 
gentleman, and you wish to live in a beautiful house 
such as Warwick Hall, and enjoy the brilliant society 
of myself and my family. You are coming to me, in 
the second place, because you know perfectly well 
that you have only to mention to any schoolmaster in 
the kingdom that you have been an assistant at War- 


264 MERRY-ANDREW 

wick Hall, and he will implore you, with outstretched 
arms, to come to him on your own terms. Regarded 
from that point of view, the mere money is so small 
a consideration that it is not worth mentioning. In 
point of fact, I don’t know why I did mention it. I 
don’t know why I didn’t ask you for some kind of 
premium, say a couple of hundred pounds. But that is 
not the custom of the profession. The custom of the 
profession is to pay a salary; and therefore I men- 
tioned the first sum that came into my head — say 
twenty-five pounds ! That is the exact position of the 
case, Mr. Dick. 

“And then there’s another thing. You are a literary 
man, and you naturally wish to have time for your 
literary labours. Very well, I encourage that. I like 
that. I like to think of you, under the protection of 
my hospitable roof, pouring out from your brain and 
your soul works that will illuminate this dingy world 
with rare flashes of genius. I say I like to think of 
that, and therefore you may be quite certain that every 
facility will be afforded you for indulging your literary 
bent to the full. When I come to think of it, why 
shouldn’t you and my daughter collaborate on a 
drama or a novel ? Much might come of it I A most 
delightful idea 1” 

Mr. Weevill again animated the voluminous tweeds, 
shook Andrew by the hand, and then intimated that 
the interview was over. Andrew retired to Mr. Mc- 
Kechnie’s office, and told Mr. McKechnie that he 
would accept thirty pounds a year, and not a penny 
less. Mr. McKechnie nodded sagely, and Andrew 
passed through to the landing, where the stalwart clerk 
was marshalling a number of other young men who 


MERRY-ANDREW 


265 


were no doubt waiting to be told about the athletic 
Christopher, the poetic Patricia, and the tame lion 
that carried them both upon his back when they were 
little children. 

In the course of a few days he heard from Mr. Mc- 
Kechnie, who informed him that he had screwed Mr. 
Weevill up to the sum required, and that Andrew 
would be expected at Warwick Hall on the twenty- 
first of January. 

Andrew employed himself during the remainder of 
his holidays in writing little stories and articles, two 
or three of which eventually found their way into 
print. He also dropped a line to Mr. Inchboard, telling 
him of his change of address, and expressing a desire 
to meet him. Mr. Inchboard promptly made an ap- 
pointment at a public-house in the Strand, and there 
Andrew found him an evening or two later, perched on 
a high stool, drinking hot whisky and water with 
sugar in it. 

“Beastly cold,” explained Mr. Inchboard. “Nearly 
dead. Everybody nearly dead. Murder case. Out all 
night. Police baffled. Tracked murderer down my- 
self. Brilliant story. Used everywhere. All the 
placards. Chief quite overcome. Paid me half-a-sov- 
ereign. Must have made forty quid out of it. Beast. 
Don’t know why I stay. Don’t know why anybody 
stays. We all do. Live and die there. Mostly die. 
Have a drink?” 

Andrew accepted a whisky-and-soda, and regaled 
Mr. Inchboard with some account of his adventures 
in the North. Mr. Inchboard nodded, and lit another 
cigarette. 

“I know. Always the way. Son of the house. Too 


266 MERRY-ANDREW 

big for his boots. Hit ’em. Hit ’em in the eye. Hit 
’em on the nose. Hit ’em anywhere. Only thing to 
do. Always my policy. Hit everybody first day. 
After that, some chance of peace. Any girls?” 

Andrew told him, in an offhand way, of his triumphs 
with Lucy Petch and Jessie Green. 

“Girls,” said Mr. Inchboard, sighing as he stirred 
up his hot whisky-and-water. “Girls. Quite impos- 
sible. Poisonous fruit. Very tempting. Thirsty man. 
Pluck the fruit. Poison. Down you go. Agony and 
misery. Always keep clear of girls myself. Quite 
impossible. Nothing but trouble. Mean well some- 
times. Born wrong. One of Nature’s colossal mis- 
takes. Shocking blunder thousands of years ago. 
Can’t stop it now. Too late. No way of putting it 
right. Poor old humanity. Steadily getting worse. 
Death rate going up. Birth rate going down. All 
wiped out soon. Have another drink?” 

Andrew ordered two more drinks, and asked Mr. 
Inchboard whether the vacancy on the staff of the 
Lightning News Agency had yet been filled up. Mr. 
Inchboard replied, in a very husky voice, that the 
staff was still in a depleted condition, but that there 
would shortly be another vacancy, as the man who sat 
on his left could not possibly last longer than three 
months. 

“Terrible thing. Can’t breathe. Has to be thumped 
on the back. Young fellow. Bright prospects. Charm- 
ing family. Full of ambition. Came to London just 
like you or me. Joined our staff. I knew what would 
happen. Watched him from week to week. Began 
to give way. Fainting. Falling downstairs. Falling 
upstairs. Inanition. Not enough food. Not enough 


MERRY-ANDREW 267 

sleep. Close atmosphere. Bound to go. Poor lad. 
Want his job?” 

Andrew signified that he would be very willing to 
risk his life in the employment of the Lightning News 
Agency if they would give him a chance, and Mr. 
Inchboard again promised faithfully that he should re- 
ceive a telegram when the man on his left suddenly 
expired. They then went to a music-hall, where Mr. 
Inchboard was received with considerable courtesy 
by the management, and shown into a box. Mr. Inch- 
board expressed supreme disgust with every turn in 
the programme, and found it necessary to make several 
pilgrimages to the bar. At midnight they parted, An- 
drew to sleep off the effects of at least five whiskies, 
and Mr. Inchboard to sit up all night in the offices of 
the Lightning News Agency, and disseminate details 
of horrible catastrophes amongst the provincial papers 
who subscribed to the night service of the L. N. A. 


CHAPTER IX 


MR. INCHBOARD SENDS A TELEGRAM, AND ANDREW GOES 
TO TOWN 

W ARWICK HALL was a largish house, quite 
modern, with large bow windows on each 
side of the front door, and two white pillars 
supporting the porch. The pillars had been put there 
to indicate that Warwick Hall was no ordinary dwell- 
ing house, but the home of a man who considered 
himself of considerable importance in the world be- 
cause he had amassed sufficient money to build a house 
like Warwick Hall. There are a great many houses 
of the Warwick Hall type in this poor old England — 
houses built, not for comfort, not for beauty, but to 
show the world that somebody or other has succeeded 
in getting rather more than his share of the world’s 
goods. 

When Warwick Hall came into the market as bank- 
rupt stock, Mr. Weevill had seized upon it, and started 
a school just one degree higher than Bayfield College. 
The parents were attracted by the size of the house, 
and the pillars supporting the porch ; for the sake of 
the pillars, they overlooked the fact that this particular 
part of Brentford was rapidly becoming a dumping- 
ground for cheap villas. From the windows of War- 
wick Hall, the pupils were able to study jerry-building 
in all its phases. There were complete rows of jerry- 
268 


MERRY-ANDREW 


269 


built villas, both of the detached and semi-detached 
variety; there were rows of jerry-built villas that 
lacked only their doors and window frames; there 
were villas in the actual process of being jerry-built, 
so that you could look over the wall, and trace out 
for yourself the silly little dining-room on one side 
of the passage, and the pretentious little drawing-room 
on the other side, and the stuffy little kitchen at the 
back. Finally there were the materials for more villas 
about to be jerry-built — scaffold-poles that had already 
done much fell work, piles of cheap red bricks, heaps 
of mortar, and heaps of sand. All day long you 
could hear the merry ring of the bricklayer’s trowel as 
the villas were shoved together, the future homes of 
toiling Englishmen and Englishwomen, most of whom 
would never know that they were encouraging some 
rascally builder and some cynical architect — save the 
name! — to disfigure the fair face of this beautiful 
land. 

Mr. Christopher Weevill met Andrew at the sta- 
tion. He was surprisingly unlike his father, being 
quite six feet in height and very taciturn, not to say 
morose. He had a ragged black moustache, long loose 
legs, and wore pince-nez. 

“Hullo,” he said to Andrew. “You Dick?” 

“I am,” replied Andrew. 

“Come on.” 

They walked up to Warwick Hall, where Andrew 
was introduced to Mrs. Weevill and the miraculous 
Patricia. Mrs. Weevill was a very gentle lady, who 
had the air of one for whom the cares and troubles 
of life were a great deal too much. As long as An- 
drew remained at Warwick Hall, he never saw Mrs. 


270 


MERRY-ANDREW 


Weevill at rest. She fagged about, upstairs and 
downstairs, in the dormitories, in the dining-room, 
in the matron’s room, from very early in the morning 
until late at night. Often when Andrew was going 
to bed he would notice a light in the linen-room where 
the boys’ clothes were kept, and, glancing in, would 
see Mrs. Weevill patiently going over piles of vests 
and stockings and socks — a task that seemed and was 
interminable. At meals it was just the same. She 
had no time to look after her own food ; she was for 
ever serving and serving and serving, and her restless 
eyes were for ever roaming from plate to plate to make 
sure that everybody was receiving proper attention. 
She never spoke unless absolutely compelled to do so, 
still less frequent was her smile ; when she did smile, 
it was like a sudden gleam of sunlight on a dark day 
in winter — quite unexpected, very sweet, with very 
little life or warmth in it, gone almost as soon as it 
came. Such was Mrs. Weevill, as she appeared to 
Andrew. 

The bewilderingly intellectual Patricia was rather 
like her brother — tall, spare, dark, always wearing 
pince-nez. Her intellectuality was so pronounced that 
it could not have escaped a hod-carrier. If you had 
met her out walking, you would have said to yourself, 
when she was still a quarter of a mile off, “Here comes 
a very intellectual young woman.” You could see it 
in the shape of her hats, and the way she put them 
on, and the cut of her skirts, and the angles of her 
thin shoulders. When she spoke to you, looking at 
you very coldly and clearly through the pince-nez — 
which, by the way, are always rather a mean advantage 
— you would have said to yourself, “This young wo- 


MERRY -ANDREW 


271 


man belongs to the intellectual type. I am a mere worm 
in comparison with her. She dominates me. I must 
make haste to bow down and worship or she will 
wither me with an ironic epigram. ,, 

The staff was completed by the other assistant-mas- 
ter, Mr. Barry, a very pleasant young fellow, some 
twenty-four years of age, who had the misfortune to 
be entirely bald. He was a very fair footballer, and 
always played without a cap. This led to a peculiar 
mistake on the part of the mother of one of the boys, 
who enquired of Andrew, as she watched Mr. Barry 
skipping about from one end of the field to the other, 
“Who is that very nimble old gentleman ?” Mr. Barry 
loathed schoolmastering, and cherished ambitions of 
becoming a successful barrister, to which end he would 
retire to his bedroom whenever an opportunity oc- 
curred, with the ostensible purpose of studying the 
Law. He would begin by lighing a pipe, and then his 
eye would be attracted by a novel or “The Sportsman,” 
and Mr. Barry would succumb. He was a very good- 
natured fellow, cheerful by disposition, but depressed 
by circumstances. When the latter became too much 
for him, his language regarding the whole Weevill 
family, with the honourable exception of Mrs. Weevill, 
was really appalling to hear. 

Christopher, Mr. Barry, and Andrew divided the 
“duty” between them. Andrew was thus “on duty” 
two days a week, and every third Sunday. On such 
days his duties were as follows : 

6.30 a. m. Called. 

7.00 a. m. Rouse boys from slumber, and superin- 
tend their washing and dressing operations. But- 
ton stiff collars for smaller boys. 


MERRY-ANDREW 


272 

7.30 a. m. Conduct boys to schoolroom for prepara- 
tion. Call over names, and make a list of those 
coming down late, a little more latitude to be 
allowed to pupils paying the highest fees. 

8.00 a. m. Conduct boys to the dining-hall, and say 
grace. 

8.45 a. m. Return to the schoolroom, and serve out 
such stationery as required by the boys. No boy 
to be stinted in this respect, there being a distinct 
profit on every exercise book, sheet of blotting- 
paper, pen, pencil, or nib sold. 

9.00 a. m. Get all the boys into the schoolroom for 
morning school. 

1 1. 00 a. m. Be present in the playground to see that 
the big boys do not kill the small boys during the 
“break.” Special latitude in this respect to be 
allowed to the pupils paying the highest fees. 

1 1. 1 5 a. m. Reassemble the boys in the schoolroom. 

12.15 a - m - Be present in the playground whilst the 
boys enjoy themselves in the same manner as 
during the break. 

1. 00 p. m. Conduct boys into the dining-hall for din- 
ner. 

1.30 p. m. Return with the boys to the schoolroom or 
the playground, and remain with them until after- 
noon school. 

2.00 p. m. Collect all the boys in the schoolroom for 
afternoon school. 

4.00 p. m. Change, and conduct boys to the field for 
football. 

5.00 p. m. Return with the boys to the school, and 
superintend their changing. 

5.15 p. m. Conduct boys to the dining-hall for tea. 


MERRY-ANDREW 


273 


5.45 p. m. Return with the boys to the schoolroom, 
and keep them amused until the hour for prepara- 
tion. 

7.00 p. m. Settle the boys in their places for prepara- 
tion, and keep a watchful eye over them until 
8.30. 

8.30 p. m. Conduct boys to the dining-hall for supper. 

9.00 p. m. Conduct boys to their dormitories, and un- 
button stiff collars for the smaller boys. 

9.15 p. m. Turn out the lights in all the dormitories. 
9.20 p. m. Descend to the dining-room for supper and 
an hour of the most brilliant conversation in or 
out of London. 

When Andrew was not on duty, his day was light 
enough, though he was always expected to join in 
the games. He chiefly suffered, during these hours of 
relaxation, from lack of companionship. Christopher 
Weevill did not care for the society of anybody but 
himself, and Mr. Barry was on duty on Tuesdays and 
Fridays. On Wednesdays and Saturdays, when Mr. 
Barry was off duty, there were generally football 
matches, in which Mr. Barry played ; so that Andrew 
had to be content with long, lonely rides on a bicycle 
which he had hired from a shop in the village. Occa- 
sionally Miss Weevill accompanied him in these ex- 
cursions, but Andrew denied himself this exquisite 
pleasure as much as possible, realising that he was 
by no means a worthy companion for any young 
woman so intellectually endowed as Patricia. 

Patricia at first seemed to take kindly to Andrew, 
and encouraged him to talk to her and to cycle with 
her, but when Andrew became a little elusive, Pa- 
tricia's manner towards him changed, and became 


MERRY-ANDREW 


274 

intellectually Arctic. This led to one of two little dif- 
ferences between Andrew and Mr. Weevill. 

One morning, Mr. Weevill called Andrew into his 
study, and asked him at what hour the boys began 
their morning preparation when he (Andrew) was 
on duty. 

“Oh, about half-past-seven,” said Andrew easily. 

“Are you sure ?” 

“Well, I don’t always look at my watch, but that’s 
about the hour.” 

“Oh.” Mr. Weevill’s sharp little face looked a 
shade more cunning than usual. “Because, as you may 
be aware, the boys have to pass my daughter’s room 
on the way downstairs, and she is in the habit of 
timing them to see that they are not late for their 
morning preparation. She tells me that when my son 
and Mr. Barry are on duty, the boys are down very 
punctually, but that when you are on duty they are 
often ten minutes, a quarter of an hour, or even twenty 
minutes late. My daughter is very rarely mistaken 
in these matters. I must ask you to be very much 
more punctual in future, Mr. Dick.” 

The other difference with Mr. Weevill was more 
serious. Andrew had had a rather good stroke of 
luck with a little paper called “The Halfpenny 
Screamer.” It was an illustrated paper chiefly appeal- 
ing to boys, and Andrew had sent them a short story 
of a broadly farcical nature. They had promptly paid 
him a guinea for the story, and had commissioned 
him to write eleven more of the same sort. Andrew 
used to yield to the temptation to write these stories 
during school hours, and one afternoon, when he was 


MERRY-ANDREW 275 

thus engaged, Mr. Weevill entered the room, and 
walked straight up to Andrew’s desk. 

“What are the boys doing, Mr. Dick?” he asked. 

“They are re-learning their geography.” 

“But that is not the way for boys to learn geography. 
If they don’t know their lesson, you should make 
them stand round your desk and teach it to them. 
That is the method I pursue myself, and which I ex- 
pect my masters to pursue.” 

After school that same afternoon, Andrew received 
a message summoning him to Mr. Weevill’s study. 
Mr. Weevill was engaged in the extremely congenial 
task of adding up the amounts for stationery debited 
to each pupil. 

“Oh, come in, Mr. Dick, will you? I think, when 
we met in Mr. McKechnie’s office, something was said 
about your being interested in literary work, was it 
not ?” 

“I believe it was,” replied Andrew. 

“And do you still keep up that interest, Mr. Dick?” 

“Certainly I do.” 

“Quite right. And when do you find time for your 
writing, Mr. Dick?” 

“All sorts of times.” 

“Always in your own time, I presume?” 

“No; sometimes in yours.” 

“That is very frank of you, Mr. Dick. I’m glad 
you were frank about the matter, because, as a matter 
of fact, I had ascertained for myself that you were 
inclined to do your writing during school hours.” 

“I knew that,” said Andrew. 

“I see. Now do you think it quite fair to me, Mr. 


n 6 MERRY-ANDREW 

Dick, to do your own work when I am paying you to 
teach the boys?” 

“That's just the point,” Andrew explained. “If you 
paid me to teach the boys, I shouldn't be compelled 
to earn money by writing, either in school or out of 
school. The amount you pay me is just about enough 
for the work I do in looking after the boys — buttoning 
their collars, seeing that they clean their teeth, and 
preventing them from falling into the fire. If you 
engage a good man, and the man is willing to earn his 
salary by extra work instead of asking you to pay 
him in full, it seems to me that you have the best of 
the bargain.” 

Mr. Weevill smiled. “That's a very excellent argu- 
ment, Mr. Dick, and I don’t say that there is not 
some truth in it. But we can’t either of us get away 
from the fact that these boys are sent here by their 
parents to be educated, and you can't educate boys 
whilst you are writing stories for the papers. Surely 
you can manage to write your stories in your own 
time?” 

“I don’t quite know when,” mused Andrew. “Two 
days a week I am on duty from the first thing in the 
morning till the last thing at night; every day of the 
week I am expected to play football; and when the 
boys are neither playing football nor at work, the din 
is so terrific that nobody could possibly write.” 

“At any rate, you have two Sundays out of every 
three to yourself.” 

“Hardly to myself. I have to go to church in the 
morning, and we have a service here in the evening. 
In the afternoon one naturally likes to get a little 
fresh air and exercise instead of sitting in a very 


MERRY-ANDREW 


m 

small bedroom, trying to balance a blotting-pad on a» 
wash-hand-stand with a large hole in the middle.” 

“Well, how would it be, Mr. Dick, if I gave you 
Sunday mornings instead of asking you to go to 
church ? I generally do my accounts on Sunday morn- 
ings, and you might keep me company by writing your 
stories. What do you think of that plan?” 

“I think it a very excellent plan,” said Andrew. 
“That will suit me admirably.” 

So every Sunday morning, as soon as the boys had 
trooped off to church, Mr. Weevill and Andrew would 
light their pipes and sit down to their writing-tables 
in adjoining apartments. The only drawback to the 
arrangement was that Mr. Weevill could never resist 
an audience, and was constantly interrupting Andrew’s 
work by describing to him the glories of his past 
career, and the amazing achievements in their respect- 
ive departments of Christopher and Patricia. 

In such style the weeks wore through, and the dull 
monotony of it all began to have its effect, as it was 
bound to do, upon Andrew’s mind and upon his soul. 
There was not even a Lucy Petch or a Jessie Green 
to lend a little colour to the sordid day. He had not 
the faintest interest in his scholastic work, and very 
little interest or pride in the pot-boilers that he was 
turning out for “The Halfpenny Screamer.” The 
postal orders were pleasant enough to receive, but the 
Oxford tradesmen were beginning to dun him for 
clothes, boots, and books, and threatening the usual 
legal processes if their claims were not settled. 

Was there any way out of it? Andrew was an 
optimist by disposition, but his optimism had been 
dealt blow after blow, and was now in a very pulpy 


278 


MERRY-ANDREW 


state. Sometimes he thought wildly of paying another 
visit to Mr. Socrates Quain, or to Mr. James Keep, or 
to Mr. Douglas Campbell, but his courage failed him 
when he took up his pen to write to them, and the 
letter remained unwritten. If they refused to have 
anything to do with him when he was well-dressed 
and full of confidence, what would they say to this 
shabby, unsuccessful usher from a third-rate school? 
His articles were returned to him with sickening regu- 
larity, and even more sickening printed expressions of 
regret. Clearly, there was no place for him in the 
world of London journalism. 

What else could he do? Sometimes he thought 
wildly of going on the stage. Yes, but how did one 
get on the stage ? It was easy to talk of going on the 
stage, as one talks of going for a walk or going to 
bed, but what was the process ? Why on earth should 
any manager in his senses entrust him with even the 
very humblest of duties ? And, if any manager could 
be found with sufficient intelligence to engage an en- 
tirely inexperienced young man, what would he pay 
him for his services? A pound a week? He would 
be worse off then than he was at Warwick Hall. No, 
he must just grind on, and Sylvia must drift further 
and further away until this grey existence was finally 
rounded off in utter blackness. 

Andrew had actually reached this despondent pitch 
when suddenly something happened. As long as he 
lives, he will never forget that something. It was a 
bleak, miserable day in March, and Andrew, much 
against his will, was changing for the usual game of 
football with the boys. There came a tap at his 
door. 


MERRY-ANDREW 279 

“Yes?” he shouted. 

“Telegram for you, sir.” 

A telegram? Who could possibly have sent him a 
telegram? Was it from Sylvia? Was there some- 
thing the matter? Was it her mother? Sylvia had 
hinted in her last letter that Mrs. Kesterton had 
seemed to be in failing health of late. 

Andrew opened the door, and took the telegram. 
The small boy who had been sent up with it clattered 
away along the uncarpeted corridor and left Andrew 
staring at the scribbled words that were to change 
the whole course of his life. 

“Man dead meet me bun shop noon tomorrow Inch- 
board 

In a flash the whole world had changed for An- 
drew. It was not a bleak and depressing day in 
March — it was a gloriously sunny day in mid- June. 
He was not a wretched, ill-paid usher about to engage 
in a feeble pretence at a game with a lot of little boys 
— he was a very fortunate young man with all his life 
before him and all the world at his feet ! He was not 
a person for whom the great and dazzling Fleet Street 
had no use — he was one of the men privileged to sway 
mankind with a flowing and an eloquent pen ! 

His spirits were so high that afternoon that the boys, 
and Christopher, and Mr. Barry scarcely knew him. 
He rushed about the football field like a mad thing, 
and when the ball was not near him, and when he 
was not chasing after the ball, he had to leap high 
into the air to relieve his feelings. He indulged in a 
fierce but friendly bout of charging with Mr. Barry, 
and succeeded in laying that bald-headed young gen- 
tleman on his back in the mud. He even made a 


280 


MERRY-ANDREW 


frantic rush at the taciturn Christopher, and bounced 
off Christopher’s bony body as though he were an 
india-rubber ball swiftly thrown against the side of a 
house. 

In school it was just the same. He simply could 
not be serious, and the class pealed with laughter 
again and again, and told each other that Mr. Dick 
was a jolly good sort, and the nicest master they had 
ever had at Warwick Hall. Immediately after school 
he tackled Mr. Weevill in his study, and demanded a 
release from his duties on the following morning. 

“This is very unusual, Mr. Dick,” protested Mr. 
Weevill. “I don’t think I can spare you tomorrow 
morning. I might manage it one day next week.” 

“I’m afraid you must spare me tomorrow morning,” 
replied Andrew, looking the little man very hard in 
the eye. 

“Indeed? Is it a matter of such importance?” 

“It’s a matter of the very greatest importance. In 
fact, it is a matter of such importance that if you can- 
not let me off I shall be compelled to take French 
leave. This is the first time that I have asked for a 
single hour off during the whole term, and I can’t 
believe that you will be so unfair as to refuse me.” 

Mr. Weevill saw that Andrew meant what he said, 
and presently gave way with the best possible grace. 
He was very curious to know the nature of Andrew’s 
business, but Andrew had learnt not to communicate 
such vague things as hopes to unsympathetic strangers. 
If he got the appointment on the L. N. A. he would 
tell them all quickly enough. 

Mr. Inchboard was not at the Bun Shop at noon, 
but he sauntered in shortly after one, Andrew, in the 


MERRY-ANDREW 


281 


meantime, having been compelled to swallow three 
glasses of beer to pay his footing. Mr. Inchboard 
had a whisky-and-soda, and then briefly explained the 
situation. 

“Man dead,” he repeated. “Not the one I told you 
about. Another one. Reporter. One of our men ap- 
plied for his job and got it. That means a vacancy. I 
nobbled old Pincumbe, and told him about you. Pin- 
cumbe’s the manager. He’ll see you this afternoon 
at three. Don’t be afraid of him. Talk to him. Tell 
him you want to live and die in the service of the 
L. N. A. You probably will. He won’t offer much. 
Take it. Better than nothing. Then look round. 
Clear out while you have the strength. And don’t 
get married. Girls? My hat! Have another?” 

Andrew very wisely declined to have another. He 
thought it scarcely likely that he would make a favour- 
able impression on Mr. Pincumbe if he presented him- 
self for the first time in a state of intoxication. Thank- 
ing Mr. Inchboard very heartily indeed for his kind- 
ness in remembering him, he sent a telegram to Mr. 
Weevill informing him that it was impossible to get 
back in time for afternoon school, bought himself a 
clean collar, and then, for the sake of old times, went to 
an A.B.C. shop and had a piece of lunch-cake and a 
cup of cocoa. At three o’clock to the minute he was 
handing in his name at the offices of the Lightning 
News Agency. 

If ever a man deserved to succeed in the world, 
that man was Mr. Pincumbe. From the very moment 
that he himself entered the service of the Lightning 
News Agency, he had put aside all mortal weaknesses. 
He had convinced himself that the Lightning News 


282 


MERRY-ANDREW 


Agency was the grandest, the noblest, and the most 
beneficent institution in England. It existed for the 
purpose of enriching everybody. It enriched the pro- 
prietors of newspapers because it helped them to fill 
their columns with suitable material at a very cheap 
rate. It enriched Mr. Pincumbe because the sharehold- 
ers recognised that he was enriching them, and they did 
not object to Mr. Pincumbe receiving a good salary so 
long as their material was cheap and their dividends 
were high. Finally, it enriched the gentlemen em- 
ployed by Mr. Pincumbe to collect the news of the 
world, to sub-edit it, and to re-despatch it. These gen- 
tlemen used to complain, naturally enough, that they 
were not enriched in the same proportion as Mr. Pin- 
cumbe, and Mr. Inchboard was one of the most violent 
in his abuse of the L. N. A. ; but that is the way 
of things in an ungrateful world; there is always a 
fly in the ointment; Mr. Pincumbe was happy in the 
knowledge that the ointment was very good ointment, 
and he did not let the presence of the fly interfere with 
his duty to his shareholders. 

“I understand from Mr. Inchboard,” said Mr. Pin- 
cumbe, “that you are anxious to join the service of 
the Lightning News Agency in the capacity of sub- 
editor, Mr. Dick?” 

“Yes,” said Andrew, with difficulty restraining him- 
self from adding “please.” 

“Well, Mr. Dick, the Lightning News Agency is a 
very great institution, wielding enormous influence, 
and every member of the staff, whatever his duties, is 
in a position of enormous responsibility. What experi- 
ence have you had in newspaper work?” 

Andrew explained that he had written various arti- 


MERRY-ANDREW 


283 


cles and stories for various papers, but was obliged to 
confess that he knew little or nothing of the inside 
working of a newspaper office. Mr. Pincumbe lis- 
tened attentively. His expression and general attitude 
could not have been more sternly critical had he been 
considering Andrew as an applicant for the editorship 
of the “Times. ” 

“That is all very well, Mr. Dick, but you evidently 
know little or nothing of serious journalism. If I give 
you a month’s trial on the Lightning News Agency, I 
presume that you are prepared to put forth all your 
energy and ability in order to prove your worthiness 
of becoming a regular member of the staff?” 

“Certainly,” Andrew assured him, with a sincere 
earnestness that there was no mistaking. “I should not 
spare myself in the very least. I am desperately anx- 
ious to get a footing in Fleet Street, and I am abso- 
lutely sure that I could very soon master the work 
required of me. I don’t mind what my hours are, and 
the salary doesn’t much matter as long as I can live 
on it.” 

“H’m. . . . Have you brought any specimens of 
your work with you, Mr. Dick?” 

“Oh, yes.” Andrew produced a fairly fat packet 
of assorted samples, and laid them on Mr. Pincumbe’s 
desk. Mr. Pincumbe looked them through, and then 
returned them to Andrew with a slight shake of the 
head. Andrew’s heart sank. 

“All very well in their way, Mr. Dick, but not at all 
the sort of work that we send out from this office. We 
deal, you understand, in real news. To perform effi- 
ciently the work of the Lightning News Agency, it is 
necessary for a man to be well versed in the politics 


284 MERRY-ANDREW 

of the day, both English and Continental. It is neces- 
sary for him to have the geography of the world at 
his fingers’ ends ; to be able to verify a date or a quo- 
tation like lightning; to be able to detect in an instant 
good news from bad ; to have the capacity for condens- 
ing the message of one correspondent to a few lines, 
or to extend another message to the length of a col- 
umn. He must be indefatigable, sober, keen, a stylist 
— in short, a potential leader writer, or a potential 
Editor of a daily newspaper, or a potential Cabinet 
Minister. Now, Mr. Dick, do you think you have all 
these qualifications?” 

“Certainly,” replied Andrew, with extreme gravity. 

“Well, we will see. Your friend Mr. Inchboard 
speaks very highly of your abilities, and I am willing 
to give you a trial.” (Andrew’s heart leapt.) “When 
can you start?” 

Andrew explained that he was at present assistant- 
master in a private school, and that the term would 
end in about a fortnight’s time. 

“Very good, Mr. Dick. I will give you a month’s 
trial, and you will commence work here on Monday 
fortnight. Your hours will be from seven o’clock in 
the evening until two in the morning, including Satur- 
days. On Sundays you will come to the office at three 
o’clock in the afternoon, and remain until ten. Mon- 
day evenings you will have to yourself. I like my 
staff to get plenty of recreation. Your salary will be 
two pounds fifteen shillings a week. At the end of 
the month, I shall be able to tell you whether I wish 
to retain your services or not. You will kindly let 
me have a letter during the course of tomorrow to tell 
me that I may rely upon you. Good afternoon.” 


MERRY-ANDREW 285 

Andrew went back to Warwick Hall enwrapped in 
a haze of bliss. He had not the slightest doubt of his 
ability to “make good” with the Lightning News 
Agency, although at present he knew nothing whatever 
of the actual duties. He was determined to wear him- 
self to the bone if need be, and to sell papers in Fleet 
Street rather than return to the galling bonds of usher- 
dom. 


CHAPTER X 


SHOWS ANDREW, NOT ONLY IN FLEET STREET, BUT UP TO 
HIS NECK IN IT 

P UNCTUALLY at seven o’clock in the evening 
of the day appointed, Andrew entered, for the 
first time, the Night Editorial room of the 
Lightning News Agency. He saw before him a room 
of fair size, chiefly furnished by a long table. There 
were six men seated round this table. At the head was 
Mr. Sandford, the Night Editor. Mr. Sandford was 
a broad-shouldered man, with a brown beard tinged 
with grey, and very light blue eyes. He was smoking 
a long clay pipe, and by his side was a large glass 
half full of beer. On Mr. Sandford’s left sat Mr. 
Eyeslip, a tall, dark, clean-shaven, rather weary-look- 
ing man, who seldom looked up from his desk, and 
still more seldom spoke. Then there was Mr. Brad- 
bury, who had been in the office ever since he first 
started his professional career as a messenger-boy. Mr. 
Lenney faced Mr. Sandford. Mr. Lenney was a short 
man, clean-shaven, rubicund, and astonishingly cheer- 
ful. How he managed to look as though he lived from 
year’s end to year’s end on a farm, whereas everybody 
knew that he was a barrister by day and a journalist 
by night, was the amazement of the office. There was 
an empty chair on Mr. Lenney’s left for Andrew. 
Mr. Inchboard occupied a chair on Andrew’s left, and 
*8a 


MERRY-ANDREW 


287 


Mr. Goldy made up the party. Mr. Goldy had a some- 
what military appearance, having served in the Yeo- 
manry, and was therefore the authority on all military 
matters. 

Behind Andrew, a slanting desk affixed to the wall 
ran almost the entire length of the room. On to this 
desk, “flimsies” were flung as fast as they were filled. 
A “flimsy/’ Andrew discovered, was a number of 
thin, transparent pieces of paper interleaved with 
“blacks,” so that everything written on the top leaf 
was reproduced on all the leaves underneath. An 
individual known as the “Corporal” would seize the 
flimsies, remove the blacks, place one sheet on a file 
by way of record, and send the other sheets down to 
the basement in a lift. Here they were dealt with 
by the staff of messengers. If they were for the 
country papers, they were sent round at once to the 
nearest post office ; if for the London papers, messen- 
ger-boys dashed off with them to the various offices. 

An inner door led to the room occupied by the tele- 
graph operator. From this room there emerged, every 
few minutes, a dark-haired gentleman rather blue about 
the chin, whose duty it was to send and receive mes- 
sages either by telegraph or by telephone. In one cor- 
ner of this inner room stood a tape-machine, which was 
clicking most of the evening. As it clicked, an endless 
tape, covered with typewritten messages, dropped 
slowly to the floor, and collected itself in coils like 
a huge snake, until one of the sub-editors, either on 
his own initiative, or at the bidding of Mr. Sand- 
ford, would tear it off at a suitable place, place it by 
him on the table, copy the messages on to flimsies, 
and send them away to the country papers. 


MERRY-ANDREW 


Sometimes there was a lull in the work, and then 
one of the messenger boys would be despatched to a 
neighbouring bar for pints of beer, a very useful tonic 
and refreshment for the tired workers. Those who 
drank beer took it in turns to “stand the round”; 
Andrew became of their number. If anyone grew 
hungry, the same messenger-boy would be sent to the 
same restaurant, and return with a plate of cold beef, 
or a plate of hot beef, or steak-and-kidney pudding, 
or any other dainty that the restaurant happened to 
have on its bill of fare for that night. 

Mr. Sandford gave Andrew a very friendly wel- 
come, and he was introduced to all the other members 
of the staff by Mr. Inchboard. That gentleman then 
showed him how to place a flimsy upon the little slant- 
ing desk in front of him, and how to hold it in place 
with the spring-catch at the top of the little desk. The 
Corporal supplied him with a “stylus,” Mr. Sand- 
ford passed him down a telegram from a country cor- 
respondent, and Andrew, within five minutes of having 
entered the room, was hard at work. He was a little 
nervous, but the work was really very easy. He had 
to copy out the telegram on to the flimsy, correct any 
mistakes in spelling, verify such names of towns as 
seemed doubtful, lick the English into shape a little, 
give it a short and suitable heading, and fling it on 
to the Corporal’s desk to be sent down to the messen- 
ger room. When the tape fell to his turn, he did not 
feel quite so assured, the news being all from foreign 
sources ; but he soon found that the matter was pretty 
reliable, and there was always the comfortable feeling 
that the ultimate responsibility rested with the sub- 


MERRY-ANDREW 


289 


editors of the country papers who would handle the 
message on arrival. 

At eleven o’clock, at Mr. Inchboard’s suggestion, he 
sent out for a plate of cold beef, a roll, and some but- 
ter ; he was astonished to find how hungry he had be- 
come since dinner — so hungry that there was not a 
scrap of anything left upon his plate. A draught of 
beer, a loaded clay pipe, and he was at it again in 
truly professional style. During intervals of work, he 
listened to the conversation, most of which was di- 
rected at, or came from, Mr. Sandford, as though he 
were the interlocutor of a group of nigger minstrels. 
Mr. Sandford, fortunately, had a keen sense of hu- 
mour and a genial manner; he set the keynote of the 
room, which was thus cheerful, not to say jolly. Mr. 
Sandford took an especial delight in twitting Mr. Inch- 
board, constantly urging upon him to reconsider his 
decision as regards matrimony, and pointing out that 
the race expected Mr. Inchboard to do his duty like 
a man and a citizen. Mr. Inchboard ignored these 
pleasantries for the most part, either smoking his long 
clay pipe in silence, or keeping his attention fixed upon 
his work. Andrew was surprised to observe that the 
little man was an extremely rapid and neat worker: 
he subsequently discovered that Mr. Sandford en- 
trusted many a ticklish task to his favourite butt. 

At midnight Mr. Sandford went off duty, and at 
one o’clock he was followed by two or three other 
members of the staff, including Mr. Inchboard. An- 
drew, of course, remained until two o’clock, being now 
under the presidency of Mr. Glasspole, who had taken 
over control from Mr. Sandford at midnight. As a 
rule, there was not very much to be done after twelve 


290 


MERRY-ANDREW 


o'clock, most of the big speeches being reported direct 
to the papers, and the correspondents of the L. N. A. 
having ceased from troubling. But occasionally there 
would be a sudden alarum, and then the depleted staff 
would have to pull themselves together and get through 
the work before they could leave for home. 

Such an alarum, in a small way, came one morning 
at two o’clock during Andrew’s first week at the L. 
N. A. He was just going off duty, feeling pretty done 
after seven hours of almost continuous scribbling in a 
close room ; but, being anxious to gain experience, and 
also to impress Mr. Pincumbe with his keenness, he 
volunteered for the job. A “runner” — that is, a street 
loafer in search of half-a-crown — had brought word 
to the office that there was a big fire in the city. Mr. 
Glasspole acquiesced, and Andrew rattled away in a 
hansom. 

Twice the cab had to pull into the gutter in order 
to allow fire-engines to go by in all the majesty of 
their galloping horses and clinking chains. At last 
they came to a crowd of people held at bay by the 
police, and Andrew jumped out of the cab. Looking 
over the heads of the crowd, he could see the engines 
drawn up in an open space, and the firemen running 
to and fro. The fire had started in the basement of 
a large photographic warehouse, and a series of explo- 
sions lent an added excitement to the affair. Flourish- 
ing the police-pass given to him by Mr. Glasspole, 
Andrew was admitted into the cleared space, and felt 
that he was part and parcel of the show. He drew as 
near as he dared to the fire, and importantly made a few 
notes on his cuff about nothing in particular. But one 


MERRY-ANDREW 


291 


feature of interest did strike him ; he noticed that the 
burning house was only two doors away from a church. 

“What church is that?’' he asked of a policeman. 

“Bow Church,” replied the policeman. 

At once Andrew’s journalistic instinct was all 
ablaze. Of all churches, this one, perhaps, was most 
beloved of the Londoner, for was it not the bells of this 
church that had called to Dick Whittington to turn 
again? Had he not often been told that no man was 
a true Cockney unless born within the sound of Bow 
Bells ? He waited until the firemen seemed to be get- 
ting the better of matters, and then he returned as 
quickly as possible to the office. Next morning, he 
had the felicity of seeing his paragraph in the late 
editions of the principal London papers, with his own 
heading : 

ALARMING FIRE IN THE CITY 
BOW CHURCH IN DANGER 

If Mr. Pincumbe ever heard of this self-sacrifice on 
Andrew’s part, he never mentioned it. The salary 
handed to Andrew at the end of the week by Mr. 
Sandford was two pounds fifteen shillings, and not 
a penny more. But how could Mr. Pincumbe be ex- 
pected to hear of everything? 

On another occasion, a little later on, Andrew had 
an opportunity of satisfying his craving for sensational 
night-work to the full. It so happened that Mr. Goldy 
had lingered after one o’clock in order to smoke a final 
pipe and have a chat with Mr. Glasspole and Andrew. 
Mr. Goldy, as a matter of fact, was in the very middle 


MERRY-ANDREW 


292 

of recounting one of his innumerable stories of 
amorous adventures, in which he easily outshone Don 
Juan, when news came, again by a runner, of a double 
murder and suicide at Woolwich. The story went that 
a lunatic who lived in a house with his aged father 
and mother had suffocated the old couple with gas 
fumes, and had then poisoned himself in a similar 
fashion. Mr. Goldy at once scented a good column for 
the evening papers, and, as Andrew’s time was now 
up, asked him if he would care to accompany him. 
Andrew jumped at the chance, and they hurried down- 
stairs, and out into the street. 

It was a bitterly cold night, or rather morning, and 
fog threatened. Mr. Goldy had a very poor opinion 
of the trains to Woolwich at that time in the morning, 
so he called a hansom at the expense of the L. N. A. 
and they both jumped in. The man protested a little 
when he was told to drive to Woolwich, but Mr. Goldy 
brandished his military moustaches at him, and off 
they went. Before they had driven very far, they were 
in the thick of the fog. Down it came like a huge 
opaque sheet, completely hiding the houses on either 
hand, swallowing up the electric lamps as though they 
had been wax vestas, blotting out the traffic, blotting 
out the sordidness of the streets, making the horse 
cough, making Andrew cough, making Mr. Goldy 
cough, and making the driver cough. Presently the 
driver pulled up, climbed down from his seat, thrust 
his beery face round the corner of the cab, and knocked 
at the window which they had let down. Mr. Goldy 
raised the window and asked him, with a military oath, 
what he wanted. 


MERRY-ANDREW 


293 


“I cawn’t see ter drive through this *ere, Guv’ner,” 
grumbled the man. 

“Then lead the horse,” commanded Mr. Goldy. 

“Lead ’im all ver wye ter Woolwich?” 

“Yes,” ordered the indomitable Goldy, “and further 
than that if necessary.” 

He dropped the window, and off they went again, 
this time at a foot-pace. Andrew had seldom been 
so cold in his life before, but he lighted his pipe, turned 
up the collar of his coat, listened to Mr. Goldy’s ad- 
ventures, and congratulated himself that this was in- 
deed the real thing. Every now and then the cab would 
stop, and the cabman would put a query as to his 
whereabouts to a policeman, or a brother cabman, or 
some miserable bird of the night. There would come 
a growl through the darkness, and then they would 
go forward again, slowly advancing towards Wool- 
wich. 

At last they reached Woolwich, only to discover that 
the street they wanted was in the neighbourhood of the 
Arsenal, a long way further on. 

“ ’Ave I got ter lead ’im all ver wye ter ve Aw- 
senal?” asked the cabman. 

“You have,” replied the relentless Goldy. 

“Well, this is a nice blinking job, this is!” 

On they went, flip-flop, flip-flop, and at last, after 
many more enquiries, the cab stopped in front of a 
row of dingy-looking houses, fronted by dingy-look- 
ing gardens. Mr. Goldy and Andrew jumped out, and 
found a policeman at the gate of the garden path that 
led to the house they wanted. Mr. Goldy showed his 
L. N. A. card, and the constable allowed him and An- 
drew to pass up the path. 


294 


MERRY-ANDREW 


When they came to the front door, a terrible smell 
of gas met them. Mr. Goldy’s excitement increased 
when he perceived that he was on the track of a real 
story. They pulled the bell, the door was opened by 
another constable, and they could see policemen in 
the passage and in the front room on the ground floor. 
Mr. Goldy was admitted to the passage, and Andrew 
followed him. 

They soon discovered that the story had been ex- 
aggerated, but there was sufficient truth in it to make 
the bitter journey worth while. The house had been 
inhabited by an old married couple and their imbecile 
son, and the gas had been left turned on in the room 
where the old couple had slept. The old lady had 
succumbed to the fumes, but the old man had been 
taken away to the hospital, and the son was under 
strict supervision. Mr. Goldy begged very hard to 
be allowed to see the room in which the tragedy had 
taken place, but, to Andrew's great relief, the police 
would not allow this. Back they clambered into the 
cab, therefore, and it was after six in the morning 
when they found themselves once again in Fleet Street. 
Mr. Goldy had the bills of the evening papers all to 
himself for quite an hour that afternoon. Then 
somebody very thoughtlessly jumped into the Thames 
from London Bridge, and Mr. Goldy's butterfly hour 
was over. 

Andrew was merely an onlooker during this inci- 
dent, but he had learnt several useful things, among 
them being the art of handling cabmen, and the still 
greater art of talking to members of the police force. 
The latter of these accomplishments he found ex- 
tremely useful a few weeks later. 


MERRY-ANDREW 


295 


It was a Sunday evening, and there was very little 
doing in the office. All the pipes were alight, and Mr. 
Sand ford was at his merriest. Suddenly a startling 
piece of news came to hand. The story went that a 
young woman who was separated from her husband 
was proceeding along Brick Lane, Whitechapel, carry- 
ing her baby. The husband met her, drew a revolver, 
fired at her, and killed the baby. A crowd had im- 
mediately gathered, and would certainly have lynched 
the husband had not the police interfered and 
dragged him off to the station. It was this story 
which Mr. Sandford, with a merry twinkle in his eye, 
sent Andrew to investigate. Andrew had very little 
idea as to the whereabouts of Brick Lane, but he re- 
membered that most of the Whitechapel murders had 
taken place in or about that thoroughfare. Scorning 
to ask any questions, therefore, he put on his hat and 
coat, and went out to “get the story.” 

A friendly constable advised him to take the Under- 
ground to Aldgate, and then walk. This Andrew did, 
and presently found himself at one end of the no- 
torious Brick Lane. Imbued with the notion that the 
residents of Whitechapel resent the presence in their 
sacred district of anybody with a clean face, a clean 
collar, and a decent coat, he pulled his hat over his 
eyes, turned up the collar of his coat, and pushed his 
way roughly into a public-house at the corner of Brick 
Lane. The bar was full of somewhat startling indi- 
viduals, but none of them paid much attention to 
Andrew until he casually asked the barmaid if she 
had heard anything about a murder that had been 
committed in the neighbourhood that evening. 


296 MERRY-ANDREW 

“Murder?” echoed the barmaid. “No. I never 
’eard anything. Did you ’ear anything about it?” 

This question was addressed to a person who had 
neglected to shave for about a week, neglected to 
change his collar for about a month, and neglected to 
acquire any new clothes for about ten years. He was 
smoking a short clay pipe, and had a pint pot at his 
elbow. 

“Murder?” he repeated in his turn. He raised the 
pint pot, came quite close to Andrew, replaced the pint 
pot on the counter, and looked very hard and long 
into Andrew’s face. “Murder?” he said a second time. 

The word “murder” having now been repeated three 
times, it was not to be wondered at that the other oc- 
cupants of the bar dropped their conversations for 
the time being, and crowded round Andrew. He be- 
gan to see pictures of himself being dragged to the 
ground, robbed, stabbed, and flung into the street ; but 
he conjured up a withered smile, and said in a con- 
ciliating tone, “I daresay it’s all a mistake,” as who 
should imply that he had not the slightest desire to 
cast an aspersion on this beautiful and pious neigh- 
bourhood. 

But the little crowd were not to be so easily cheated 
out of their Sunday evening sensation. They drew 
closer and closer yet to Andrew, until those in front 
had to put their hands against him in order to keep 
the others back. The aspect of things was distinctly 
threatening when a brilliant idea occurred to the young 
journalist. Looking over the heads of the crowd at 
the glass door by which he had entered, he shielded his 
eyes from the light with his hand, and exclaimed 
in an eager voice, “Is that an Inspector?” 


MERRY-ANDREW 297 

The crowd turned to look through the glass door, 
leaving a little lane open. 

“Yes, it is!” Andrew replied to his own question. 
“I must speak to him at once !” With that he dashed 
through the mob, gained the swing doors, and was 
once more safely in the street. 

He wandered down Brick Lane and up again, but 
of course there was nothing to be learnt in that way. 
Presently it occurred to him that if anybody had been 
shot, they would be taken to the nearest hospital, so 
he enquired the way to the nearest hospital, and was 
informed that it was in Commercial Road. Andrew 
walked briskly along Commercial Road, up the steps 
of the hospital, and demanded to see the Doctor-in- 
charge. 

What was his business with the Doctor-in-charge? 
Andrew beat about the bush for a little, and then took 
the porter into his confidence. The porter conducted 
him to a large book, in which were entered the names 
and particulars of the cases brought into the hospital 
that day. The number of these cases was surprising, 
but at last Andrew found a reference to a young wo- 
man suffering from a bullet wound. He demanded to 
see the young woman, but the porter smiled and shook 
his head. So Andrew made a mental note of the writ- 
ing in the book, and hurried away to the Commercial 
Road Police-Station. 

The door of the Police-Station stood open — Police- 
Stations seem to have this friendly TTabit in common 
with public-houses — and Andrew walked straight into 
the Charge Room. Here he found himself right on 
the scent of his story. A very small man, hatless, 
with blood on his face that came from a bad scratch, 


298 MERRY-ANDREW 

clad in an old and ragged suit, stood there in charge of 
a constable. The little man, who had pronouncedly 
Hebraic features, seemed to be recovering from a 
dreadful fright; he kept casting downward glances at 
the pocket of his tattered jacket. Following the direc- 
tion of the little man’s eyes, Andrew noticed that there 
was a round hole in the pocket, which looked as though 
it had been burnt through with a jet of flame. 

“It was lucky fer you,” the constable was saying, 
“that me and my mate came up just when we did.” 

The little man looked at the constable with round, 
mournful eyes. Then he looked down again at his 
scorched pocket. 

“Another minute,” went on the constable, “and 
they’d ’ave done yer in.” 

The little man raised his sad eyes to the eyes of 
the healthy constable. 

“I never see a lot of folks so mad,” said the con- 
stable. “What did yer want ter go and do it for?” 

The little man shook his head and looked down at 
his maimed pocket. 

“You must ’ave ’ad a reason,” pursued the constable. 

The little man again looked up into the face of his 
questioner, and again he shook his head. 

“Well, if yer won’t explain, I suppose yer won’t 
explain.” 

The little man still shook his head. Then, quite 
suddenly, he blurted out: “It went off in me ’and.” 

“What’s that?” snapped the constable. 

“It went off in me ’and,” repeated the little man. 
“I never meant ter go and do it. I never meant ter 
’urt ’er. We was talking, and all of a sudden it went 
off in me ’and. Is she a gorner?” 


MERRY-ANDREW 


299 


“Not yet,” replied the constable, “but she may be 
by the morning.” 

On receipt of this intelligence, the little man again 
looked down at the hole in his pocket, again gave his 
head a mournful shake, and again looked up at the 
healthy constable. It was a look that seemed to say, 
“I know I’m in your hands. I know what the police 
are, and what they can do to me. I can’t get away 
unless you want to let me go. It’s no use my saying 
anything. You’ll do just whatever you think you 
will, and I can’t prevent it.” 

It was at this juncture that the constable noticed 
Andrew standing near the doorway observing the 
scene. He stepped forward with some brusqueness 
and asked the visitor what he wanted. 

“Is that the man who did the shooting?” asked An- 
drew. 

“What shooting?” answered the constable. 

“Is that the man who shot the woman who’s now 
in the Commercial Road Hospital ?” 

“What ’ave you got ter do with it?” 

“I’m from the newspapers.” 

“What newspapers?” 

“All the newspapers. I represent a news agency. 
Here is my card. A report was brought in that a man 
had shot at a woman and killed a baby. I’ve been sent 
down to investigate it. We want to get the right re- 
port into the papers, and not the wrong one. There’s 
sure to be a report in the papers, so you may as well 
have it correct as not.” 

The constable pondered for a moment over this 
knotty problem, and then told Andrew he had better 
step through into the next room and speak to the In- 


300 MERRY-ANDREW 

spector. Andrew did so. The Inspector was sitting 
at a high desk, busily writing. It seemed to An- 
drew that Inspectors were always writing. At any 
rate, he had never seen an Inspector who was not 
writing. He wondered what on earth they wrote, and 
why they didn’t write a play or a novel while they 
were about it. 

“Good evening,” he said cheerily to the Inspector. 

The Inspector looked up from his writing, glanced 
at Andrew over his glasses, inspected him as only an 
Inspector can inspect, and then replied in a gruff, 
unwilling voice, “Good evening.” 

“I have come here,” explained Andrew glibly, “as 
the representative of the Lightning News Agency. 
You have probably heard of our agency; we supply 
most of the news to all the papers.” Here he paused 
to note the effect of this paralysing information on 
the official mind. 

“Well?” said the Inspector. 

“We received a report about a very serious shoot- 
ing case. We were told that a man fired at a woman, 
missed the woman, and killed a baby that she was 
carrying. Is that the man in the next room?” 

“I can’t answer any questions,” said the Inspector. 

“Well, look here, you know, we’re bound to send 
something about this to the papers, and we don’t 
want to get a garbled version of it. If you wouldn’t 
mind just giving me the facts, I’ll see that the papers 
print them correctly. Is that the man in the next 
room ?” 

“It might be,” said the Inspector. 

“Thank you.” 

“Mind, I’m not telling you anything.” 


MERRY-ANDREW 301 

“I quite understand. Did he kill the baby ?” 

“There was no baby killed that I know anything 
about.” 

“Oh.” There was distinct disappointment in An- 
drew’s tone. A journalist on the track of a good story 
has no room for human sentiments. “Then there was 
nobody killed?” 

“You must go away,” said the Inspector. “I’ve told 
you before that I can’t answer any questions.” 

“I’ve been to the hospital,” said Andrew pleasantly, 
“and I found that a young woman was taken in there 
suffering from a bullet wound. I suppose that would 
be the same young woman ?” 

“It might be,” said the Inspector. 

“Thank you.” 

“Mind, I’m not telling you anything.” 

“I quite understand. . . . That chap in there seems 
to be worried about a hole in his pocket. Did he shoot 
at the woman through his pocket?” 

“I don’t say he did, and I don’t say he didn’t. It 
might have happened like that. That’s as much as I 
can say. Now you must be off.” 

“Thank you. It might have happened by accident, 
eh?” 

“He says it happened by accident. That’s all I can 
tell you. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight,” said Andrew. . . . “Did the crowd go 
for him?” 

“What makes you ask that ?” 

“Oh, I don’t know. Only he looks as if he’d been 
mauled about a bit.” 

“Well,” replied the Inspector, who parted with every 
shred of information as reluctantly as a sulky parrot, 


302 


MERRY-ANDREW 


“if you go firing off pistols in the street, and if a ball 
out of your pistol happens to hit a young woman, and 
if that young woman has friends in the neighbour- 
hood, it’s quite likely that her friends will give you a 
bit of a jacketing, isn’t it? Now you must be off.” 

“Thank you,” said Andrew. 

“Mind, I’ve not told you anything.” 

“I quite understand that. Just one more thing. 
What was the motive?” 

“I didn’t say there was a motive.” 

“No, but he must have known the woman before- 
hand. Was she his wife?” 

“Might have been. I don’t say she was, and I don’t 
say she wasn’t. They might have been living apart, 
and just happened to meet in the street. Now you 
must be off.” 

“Thank you. Goodnight.” 

“Goodnight. And mind,” added the Inspector, as 
Andrew moved towards the door, “I haven’t told you 
anything whatever.” 

“That’s perfectly understood,” replied Andrew, and 
then he passed once again through the outer room, 
where the healthy young constable was still towering 
over his prey, and the little man was still looking from 
the constable to his wounded pocket, and from the 
pocket back to the constable. 

Andrew returned with all possible speed to the offices 
of the Lightning News Agency. Everybody looked up 
with interest as he entered. They were naturally 
anxious to know how he had fared in his first enquiry. 

“Did you get anything?” asked Mr. Sandford. 

“Yes,” said Andrew, hanging up his coat and hat. 

“Will it make a story?” 


MERRY-ANDREW 


303 


“Yes, I think it will make a very good story.” 

“Anybody killed?” enquired Mr. Sandford, with 
more interest than he had yet shown in the affair. 

“No, nobody actually killed, but the woman may 
die during the night. The man shot her through his 
pocket. The woman is his wife, and they have been 
living apart. They met in the street by accident, and I 
suppose they had a row. I’ve seen the man; he’s a 
little Jew. I went to the hospital and tried to see the 
woman, but they wouldn’t let me. The most interest- 
ing part of the business is that the crowd tried to lynch 
the man, and the police had some difficulty in saving 
him.” 

“What about the baby?” enquired Mr. Sandford. 

“Oh, there was nothing in that. She may have been 
carrying a baby, but there was no mention of it in the 
hospital book. I expect that was invention.” 

“All right,” said Mr. Sandford. “Make what you 
can of it, but don’t be too lengthy. There’s been a 
lot of stuff in since you went.” 

Andrew sat down and wrote out his story. Pic- 
turesque details came crowding into his head, and he 
found it difficult to repress them, but he knew that 
they were not suitable for the staid columns of the 
London morning newspapers of that day. The story 
was quickly despatched, and next morning he had the 
pleasure of reading on some of the bills of the more 
“human” papers: 

“ATTEMPT TO LYNCH A JEW IN WHITE- 
CHAPEL” 

Still he heard nothing from Mr. Pincumbe with re- 
gard to the promised appointment to the staff. He had 


MERRY-ANDREW 


now been more than six months in the office of the 
Lightning News Agency, and had done his utmost to 
win some sign of recognition from the Manager. He 
had spared neither his time nor his brains nor his en- 
ergies ; and yet no sign came. 

“Dodge,” said Mr. Inchboard. “Old dodge. Tried 
it on me. Try it on everybody. Keep you up to the 
mark. Keep you waiting. Keep you guessing. Don’t 
you stand it. Write to him. Write a sharp note. 
Demand a position on the staff. Have a beer ?” 

Andrew had almost made up his mind to the reck- 
less step of writing to the Manager, when the wheel 
of his Fortune took another turn. Looking through an 
evening paper during an interval of slackness at the 
office, he came across a paragraph to the effect that 
the Editor and Assistant-Editor of a weekly paper 
called “The Studio” had resigned their posts in order 
to found another weekly paper, and that the place of 
the Editor had been offered to and accepted by Mr. 
George Baradale. There was no mention of the new 
Assistant-Editor. 

Now, of all the papers in London, “The Studio” was 
the one upon which Andrew had set his desires from 
a very early age. It was an illustrated weekly paper, 
literary, theatrical, and artistic. It was a very popular 
paper at Oxford, and Andrew had once or twice suc- 
ceeded in getting little sets of verses and little dia- 
logues printed in its columns. He did not know Mr. 
George Baradale, but he set his wits to work wonder- 
ing how he could secure an immediate interview with 
this well-known personage. The post of Assistant- 
Editor was probably filled, but the chance, however 
slight, ought not to be neglected. 


MERRY-ANDREW 305 

He walked home in the early morning hours with 
his mind full of the problem. Some mysterious force 
urged him on. A mad notion kept flitting through his 
head that, in some way or another, his fate was to be 
bound up with this appointment of Mr. George Bara- 
dale to the Editorship of “The Studio. ,, He had no 
reason to hope, and yet he did hope — wildly, fool- 
ishly, tumultuously. 

On his table lay a letter from Sylvia. He opened it 
at once, of course, but his brain was still working on 
the problem of “The Studio.” Sylvia’s letter was much 
the same as usual. She congratulated him on his con- 
tinued success, and urged him to pay them a visit at 
the first opportunity. But there was one little piece of 
news that seemed to be linked up with Andrew’s train 
of thought. 

“Who do you think is coming to open the Bazaar 
in aid of the Church Restoration?” she wrote. “You 
would never guess! Mona Swinhoe! Isn’t it fun! 
You really ought to run down to the Bazaar, and 
then you could meet her, and she might be able to 
give you some useful introductions. I am sure she 
would take a tremendous fancy to you. How could 
she help it ?” 

Andrew sat holding the letter and staring into the 
dead fire. Mona Swinhoe was a novelist who had 
just leapt into fame. If he could secure an author- 
ised snapshot of the lady, and an interview with 
her, would not that be a fitting introduction to the 
new Editor of “The Studio ?” The date of the Bazaar 
was the following Tuesday. Monday was his night off. 

He jumped up, and seized an old A.B.C. time- 
table. 


CHAPTER XI 


A WILD JOURNEY TO WARWICKSHIRE, AND THE TRE- 
MENDOUS RESULT 

M R. SANDFORD, who was the personification 
of good-nature, raised no objection to An- 
drew's suggestion that he should work on 
the Monday night and take the Tuesday night off in- 
stead. Leaving the office, therefore, at two o'clock 
precisely on the morning of the day set apart for the 
Bazaar, Andrew lay down upon his bed for three 
hours, and then caught the six-thirty train for War- 
wickshire and Sylvia. 

It was said, in the last century, that the advent of 
the railway train had killed romance. People accus- 
tomed to the picturesque stage-coach could not im- 
agine a lover welcoming a lover on the prosaic plat- 
form of a grimy railway-station. Nothing less ro- 
mantic for them than the distant bend of a road or 
the summit of a distant hill backed by the setting 
sun. They should have seen Sylvia as she waited 
that clear September morning for the six-thirty from 
Paddington. . . . 

To the casual eye she was just the same Sylvia as 
ever, but Andrew noticed the difference in a flash. 
Her face was a little thinner, and her cheeks a little 
paler, and her eyes a little more resolute. Whilst An- 
drew had been up and down the great world, hammer- 
306 


MERRY-ANDREW 


307 

ing some sort of a living out of it, Sylvia had remained 
at home with her mother in the quiet Warwickshire 
village; but the sufferings of inaction are often 
less tolerable than the actual blows received in 
the fight for life. Andrew had starved, but Sylvia 
had starved with him. Andrew had known humilia- 
tion, but Sylvia had known the humiliation of help- 
lessness. Andrew had won through the hottest of 
the fight, but Sylvia had neither part nor lot in the 
victory. 

And she, on her side, saw a change in him. He, too, 
looked paler and thinner; he, too, had resolution in 
his eyes that was not there when he went away. He 
had not aged very much in physique; he was still 
a mere boy ; but the soul of a man had begun to look 
out of those boyish eyes. With something very like 
a pang, Sylvia realised that he was not the same An- 
drew who had left her to go to London. There was 
now a great gap between them. Patient waiting had 
added little to her store of knowledge; it was his added 
knowledge that divided them. 

Of course they instinctively hid, or tried to hide, 
their thoughts from each other. They smiled very 
brightly, and laughed at the first excuse, and pretended 
that everything was just as it used to be in the dear old 
days. Sylvia had driven herself to the station in her 
little pony-trap, and as soon as they were alone in a 
shady lane, Andrew” drew her to him and kissed her. 
Sylvia submitted to the kiss, but she did not return 
it. She just touched up the pony and drove on. 

“And when does the Great Personage arrive ?” asked 
Andrew. 

“Oh, she is going to motor over from Eastwood, and 


MERRY-ANDREW 


308 

will be at the Park at three-thirty. Isn’t it exciting? 
You must be extremely nice to her, Andrew, and I’m 
sure she’ll take a great fancy to you and be very 
helpful.” 

“D’you think she’ll let me take a snapshot of her 
for The Studio?”’ 

“Extremely unlikely.” 

“Well, d’you think she’ll give me an interview? I 
want it most particularly.” 

“You might try, but they say she thinks that inter- 
views are vulgar.” 

“That depends on how they are done,” explained 
Andrew with the loftiness of the London journalist 
in the country. “There are interviews and interviews. 
I should do a sort of impressionist sketch, and not 
the usual question and answer.” 

“I suppose you realise,” said Sylvia, “that the speech 
she will make this afternoon when she opens this 
Bazaar is the first speech she has ever made in her 
life?” 

“What?” cried Andrew. 

“It’s her maiden speech. She said so in her letter 
to the Rector.” 

“By Jove! That’s a scoop! Will there be reporters 
present ?” 

“Oh, yes, there’ll be reporters from Eastwood, and 
perhaps from Birmingham.” 

“Dash it! They’ll spoil the whole bag of tricks.” 

Mrs. Kesterton was lying on a sofa, and Andrew, 
although he was prepared by Sylvia’s letters for a 
change in her, was quite shocked at her appearance. 
The poor lady looked very frail, but her customary 
optimism still prevailed. 


MERRY-ANDREW 


309 


“Ah, Andrew, my dear, here you are ! What a long 
time it seems since you went away! They say it’s a 
rolling stone that gathers no moss, but Sylvia tells 
me that you’ve begun to gather some moss at last; 
I’m so glad. I always told you that every cloud had a 
silver lining, but young people find it difficult to be- 
lieve these things when they are in trouble. Sylvia 
was just the same ; she used to worry dreadfully about 
you at first, but I think I convinced her at last that 
the night is darkest before dawn. I bought the oak 
sideboard out of your father’s dining-room — but you 
were here for the sale, weren’t you ?” 

“I’m so sorry not to find you at your best,” faltered 
Andrew, feeling it as difficult to express his sympathy 
as young men always do in such cases. 

“Oh, but I don’t know that I’m not at my best. 
I’m very weak, and I can’t bustle about and look after 
the house as I used to do, but see what a chance it is 
for Sylvia ? She’s becoming quite a clever little house- 
keeper now that she has to look after the servants and 
everything. Depend upon it, it’s an ill wind that blows 
nobody good. I feel much more comfortable in my 
mind about Sylvia now that I’ve seen her turn her 
hand to practical things. And now tell me all about 
yourself. Have you got nice rooms ? Is your landlady 
a good cook? Does she mend your clothes properly, 
and keep everything clean ? Do you take care of your 
health ? I must know all about it, because I feel like 
a sort of mother to you, you know. Don’t keep any- 
thing back. I shall be sure to see through you if you 
try to do that.” 

So Andrew sat by her side and told her such of the 
adventures recounted in this story as he thought would 


MERRY-ANDREW 


310 


amuse her. At the end of an hour, Sylvia brought 
a little tray and placed it by her mother, and then 
she and Andrew went into the dining-room. It was 
strange, this first meal alone together, and made An- 
drew hate the thought of his dingy apartments and 
the vulgar, noisy restaurants where he was forced to 
take most of his meals. Wild schemes shot through 
his brain for removing Sylvia and Mrs. Kesterton to 
some charming house on the outskirts of London, 
where they could all be together — and this brought 
him back to the coming meeting with Mona Swinhoe. 
That was the next step. Somehow or other, every- 
thing seemed to depend on that. 

They left Mrs. Kesterton peacefully dozing, and 
walked up together to the Park. The band was play- 
ing, flags were flying, dozens of people stepped forward 
to welcome Andrew after his long absence. He saw 
nothing but friendly faces, and smiling eyes, and out- 
stretched hands. 

They strolled through the various tents, and in- 
spected the “Art Needlework,” and the flowers, and 
the fruit, and the vegetables, and the eggs, and the 
mushrooms, and even took a little peep into the tent 
that was to screen the fortune-teller from the mere 
world of things as they were. 

At last a murmur of excitement ran through the 
sauntering crowd; a big motor-car swept up the 
drive and stopped in front of the tents. Out of 
it stepped a pretty little lady, with pink cheeks and 
blue eyes. She was attended by a much larger lady, 
who stood in front of the celebrity whenever a camera 
was levelled at her. This, apparently, was the large 
lady's raison d'etre. 


MERRY-ANDREW 


311 


The Rector received Miss Mona Swinhoe with due 
ceremony, and conducted her to a platform, from 
whence she delivered her maiden speech. It was quite 
a pretty little speech, neatly phrased and well-bal- 
anced, with an amusing reference to the mice who, 
quite uninvited, attended Divine Service through the 
holes in the floor. Amid the applause that followed, 
she stepped down from the platform, and the Rector 
promptly introduced Andrew, much to his embarrass- 
ment, as “another worker in the field of letters.” An- 
drew suggested a cup of tea, and was soon walking 
away to a shady corner with the great Mona Swinhoe 
on his arm. If only the Night Editorial of the Light- 
ning News Agency could have seen him then! 

“And now tell me about yourself,” said the little 
lady. “What sort of things do you write? And 
where do you write them?” 

“Oh,” stammered Andrew, “the things I write are 
not worth talking about. I’ve never written a book. 
I only write little articles, and stories, and things of 
that sort. I’m on the Editorial staff of the Lightning 
News Agency, you know.” 

“The Lightning News Agency? What’s that?” 

“Well, it’s a sort of place where they collect news 
and send it out to the newspapers.” 

The little celebrity turned her blue eyes on the 
boy, and something in his face seemed to please her. 
She smiled graciously, and rested the tip of her fan 
upon his hand. 

“Do you know,” she said, “that you have a very 
great responsibility? A great statesman said to me, 
when he paid me the honour of taking tea with me 
at my house, ‘As a woman, you are pretty and good ; 


312 MERRY-ANDREW 

as a writer, be brave and true. God bless you, my dear 
child ! Be brave ! You have got a great future before 
you. Don’t lose heart on the way!’ and I say the 
same to you. But I also add, ‘Never write unkindly 
about a woman, or about any work done by a woman !’ 
We women have enough to contend with in this world, 
God knows, without men using their cruel strength 
against us!” 

Andrew wanted very much to introduce the subject 
of a snapshot and an interview, but he did not quite 
know how to bring the conversation down to the right 
level. He was still puzzling over the best way to ac- 
complish this feat, when the Rector came panting up 
to take Miss Mona Swinhoe the round of the stalls. 
Andrew anathematised him for a tactless ass, and then 
went off to search for Sylvia. 

That was the only chance he had of a conversation 
with the famous novelist, but he made the most of it. 
Discarding the idea of a snapshot, as she seemed to 
have such a definite objection to anything of the kind, 
he sat down in his bedroom that evening, and wrote 
a little article entitled “MONA SWINHOE’S 
MAIDEN SPEECH.” He described the setting — the 
rural Bazaar, the local dignitaries, the quiet tents, the 
humble villagers. He gave as much of the speech as 
he could remember with the help of his notes, and 
then he drew a little pen-portrait of this much talked 
of and little known personality. 

As soon as he arrived in London the following day, 
he had his article typewritten, put it into his pocket, 
and called at the offices of “The Studio.” Mr. George 
Baradale was engaged, but would see him if he cared 
to wait. Andrew replied that he would wait. He 


MERRY-ANDREW 


313 

did not mention the fact to the messenger-boy, but 
he would have waited all day, and then slept on the 
floor of the waiting-room, rather than miss the chance 
of meeting Mr. Baradale. 

At the end of half-an-hour or so, he was conducted 
into the presence of the new Editor of “The Studio.” 
Mr. Baradale was an elderly man, with white beard 
and whiskers, and a gravely courteous manner. He 
waved Andrew to a chair, and bent his full attention 
upon the visitor. Mr. Baradale never did things by 
halves. If you were fortunate enough to catch his ear, 
you caught the whole of it, and not the extreme tip of 
one lobe. 

“I think I have brought you something rather in- 
teresting,” Andrew began. 

Mr. Baradale bowed. “That's good. We're always 
open to consider interesting things for 'The Studio.' 
What is the nature of it ? A photograph ?” 

“No, it isn’t a photograph. It's Miss Mona Swin- 
hoe’s maiden speech, delivered yesterday at a bazaar 
which she opened in Warwickshire. I happened to 
be present, and I made a note of the speech, think- 
ing it would be the very thing for 'The Studio.' ” 

“So it would have been,” replied Mr. Baradale, “but 
I'm afraid you were anticipated. A verbatim report 
of the speech appears in this afternoon's 'Westminster 
Gazette.' ” 

Andrew looked very blank. He had known that 
there were to be reporters from Birmingham, but it 
had not occurred to him that they would telegraph the 
speech to the London papers. 

“May I look at it ?” he asked. 

“Certainly.” Mr. Baradale handed him the paper. 


MERRY-ANDREW 


sn 

“But this is so bald 1” he exclaimed. "They’ve got 
nothing but the mere speech. I’ve got a pen-portrait 
of Miss Swinhoe made at first hand.” 

Mr. Baradale was at once interested. “Oh, have 
you? Let me look it through, will you?” 

Andrew gave the Editor his little article, and then 
endured the agony, possible only to a young writer in 
a similar position, of having to watch another person 
reading his work and to wait for the verdict. 

“Excellent!” pronounced Mr. Baradale. “And so 
you have the privilege of a personal acquaintance with 
Miss Swinhoe?” 

“I never met her until yesterday. I heard from a 
friend that she was to open this bazaar, and it occurred 
to me that, if I could get an interview with her, it 
might serve as a means of introduction to you. So 
I went down. It isn’t an interview, because she ob- 
jects to interviews, but nobody could object to a re- 
port of the speech with a few notes on the setting.” 

Mr. Baradale seemed more and more interested. 

“Do you really mean, Mr. Dick, that you went all 
the way to Warwickshire and back in order to obtain 
this means of introduction to me?” 

“Yes,” said Andrew. 

“That seems very enterprising, not to say flattering. 
Why didn’t you simply call at the office and send in 
your card?” 

“Well, you see, I didn’t know whether that would be 
sufficient. I knew that my name would be quite 
strange to you, and I wanted to show you, besides, 
what I could do.” 

“I see. You wish to become a contributor to The 
Studio’?” 


MERRY-ANDREW 


315 


Now for it! Andrew steeled himself for a speech 
of unparalleled audacity. 

“I wish to become Assistant-Editor of The 
Studio/ . . ” 

Was it possible that Mr. Baradale was considering 
the idea ? Andrew hardly breathed as he watched the 
face of the man who had it in his power to make him 
the happiest living mortal. An hour passed in silence 
— a day — a week — a month — a year — five years — ten 
years — a lifetime — an eternity! In reality, the time 
that elapsed before Mr. Baradale replied was about 
three seconds. 

“How did you know,” he asked, studying Andrew 
more intently than ever, “that I was in need of an 
Assistant-Editor? Did anybody mention it to you?” 

“No. I saw an announcement in a paper that you 
had been appointed to the Editorship, but there was 
no mention of any Assistant-Editor. The Studio’ has 
always been my favourite paper, and I have occasion- 
ally contributed to its columns.” 

“When was that?” asked Mr. Baradale. 

“When I was at ” Andrew drew back on the 

very edge of the precipice. Another hundredth part 
of a second, and he would have mentioned the one 
word that (as he thought) would have ruined the 
barest possible chance he might now have of secur- 
ing the appointment. “A year or two ago,” he sub- 
stituted. 

“When you were at ?” persisted Mr. Baradale, 

with a gentle smile. 

“Floodington,” said Andrew. “I’ve been in a school 
at Floodington.” 


316 


MERRY-ANDREW 


“Oh, I see. And your contributions were sent in 
from Floodington ?” 

“Yes.” Andrew was sorry to lay the possible foun- 
dation of his fortune on a lie, but there was no help 
for it. 

“Have you any cuttings of your work with you?” 

“Oh, yes!” Andrew dived into an inner pocket, 
and produced a specially assorted sample. There was 
nothing about Oxford in any of the cuttings, and 
nothing of a serious nature. There were one or two 
criticisms of plays written for Oxford papers, and 
there were little sets of verses, and little dialogues, and 
one or two light descriptive articles. Mr. Baradale 
read them through very carefully, entirely ignoring 
the long line of messenger-boys that had assembled 
in the passage without. When he had finished, he 
handed them back to Andrew with the remark, “Very 
bright — very bright and clever. And what are you 
doing at the present moment, Mr. Dick?” 

Andrew explained that he was a sub-editor on the 
Night Editorial of the Lightning News Agency, add- 
ing hastily that he was not on the regular staff, and 
was therefore free to leave at a week’s notice. 

“It is quite true,” said Mr. Baradale at last, “that 
I am looking for a young man to assist me in the 
Editorial department of this paper, and you seem to 
be very much the sort of young man for whom I am 
looking.” (Andrew nearly swooned.) “But I must 
tell you, Mr. Dick, that the editing of an illustrated 
weekly paper is not nearly so easy as it looks. The 
inexperienced person, taking up a copy of The Studio,’ 
sees a certain amount of reading matter, and a certain 
number of photographs and drawings. To such a per- 


MERRY-ANDREW 


317 

son, it would seem a pretty easy task to bring out this 
paper each week, and he would probably suppose that 
the work could all be done in a couple of days. I can 
assure you that this is very far from being the case. 
For one photograph or drawing that you see in the 
paper, at least ninety-nine have been rejected. That 
will give you some idea of the number of photographs 
that have to be inspected, and very carefully inspected, 
every day of the week. If we didn’t look at every 
photograph that came into the office, we might miss 
something of extraordinary interest, which would find 
its way to a rival paper. If that happened, my Direc- 
tors would naturally want to know why that photo- 
graph had found its way into a rival paper instead of 
into The Studio.’ 

“Then there are a large number of drawings to be 
considered, and articles, and stories. There are proofs 
to be read, and pages to be made up, and callers to 
be interviewed. We have to be constantly in the front ; 
The Studio’ must never take second place. Whatever 
there is going of interest to our readers, we must 
cover it, and we must cover it in the best and brightest 
possible way. Now, just consider all the matters of 
interest that are occurring, not only in London, but 
all over the country and all over the world at this 
moment, and then you will see how very quick, and 
experienced, and hard-working the Editorial staff must 
be if The Studio’ is to beat all its rivals out of the 
field each week. 

“At present, I’m working without an assistant, 
chiefly because I’ve found it extremely difficult to 
pitch upon the right man. Some know too much, 


318 


MERRY-ANDREW 


others know nothing at all. Some are lazy, others are 
too energetic — in their own interests. Some are too 
finicking to be of any use in any newspaper office what- 
soever, whilst others are obviously not in touch with 
the type of reader to whom we appeal. And so, Mr. 
Dick, although I didn’t even know of your existence 
half-an-hour ago, I’m disposed to give you a trial — 
not a regular and definite appointment, you under- 
stand, but merely a trial.” 

Andrew stammered out a few broken words of grati- 
tude. He tried to say that he would devote himself 
night and day to the interests of the paper, but the 
right words completely failed him, and he felt that he 
was making a horrible mess of it. 

“Wait a moment,” Mr. Baradale advised him. “You 
have to consider your position on the Lightning News 
Agency, Mr. Dick. These positions in Fleet Street 
are not easily come by, and, whatever your salary may 
be, and whatever the nature of your work may be, I 
ought to warn you not to give up that position with- 
out very careful consideration. I hope that, if you 
came to me for three months on trial, I should find you 
a very valuable assistant in every way; on the other 
hand, I might find you quite the reverse, and then you 
would have lost your berth on the Lightning News 
Agency as well as your post here.” 

“I’ll risk it,” said Andrew promptly. 

Mr. Baradale smiled : “If you’ll take my advice,” 
he said, “you’ll sleep on it, Mr. Dick. Leave your cut- 
tings with me, and I’ll look them through again at my 
leisure. I must also drop a line to your present Chief, 
and I must think things over myself. Then, if every- 


MERRY-ANDREW 319 

thing seems satisfactory, and you are still willing to 
take the risk, come and see me the day after tomorrow 
at three o’clock. Good afternoon.” 

Mr. Baradale rose, shook Andrew very warmly, 
by the hand, and bowed him out into the passage, 
which was now so crowded with messenger-boys and 
other people waiting to see Mr. Baradale that he could 
hardly force his way through. There were men look- 
ing anxious and hurried; these were photographers, 
who wanted to be off with their wares to the next 
office. There were men leaning carelessly against the 
wall smoking cigarettes; these were artists, who had 
the whole night before them now that the working 
light for the day was gone. There were one or two 
middle-aged ladies with compressed lips; these were 
press-agents, who hoped to persuade Mr. Baradale 
to publish the portrait of some young actress in “The 
Studio.” The photographers scowled at Andrew, 
and the artists smiled at him, and the press-agents 
compressed their lips at him; but Andrew saw none 
of them. He saw nothing but a splendid avenue, 
moss-carpeted, lighted with gleams of gold, the en- 
trance to which was on the other side of a wide and 
deep ravine labelled 

TWO DAYS 

Mr. Baradale had advised him to sleep on it. Good 
Heavens, what a suggestion! He plunged out of the 
Strand down to the Embankment, and paced along by 
the side of the river, wondering what he could do to 
help forward his Chance. The delay was maddening! 
The uncertainty was enough to drive him crazy! Was 


320 MERRY-ANDREW 

there no string that he could pull, no lever that he 
could work, to improve this wonderful, this glorious, 
this unique Chance? 

On the morning of the second day his suspense 
ended. He received a letter from Mr. Baradale, offer- 
ing him the post of Assistant-Editor of “The Studio” 
on three months' probation, at a salary more than 
double the one he was at present receiving, and pay- 
ment at the usual rates for anything that he might 
write in the paper. 

At the offices of the Lightning News Agency the 
news of Andrew’s good fortune was received with 
astonished smiles and a few criticisms. Mr. Sandford, 
Mr. Lenney, and Mr. Inchboard were ungrudging in 
their congratulations. Mr. Pincumbe, in reply to An- 
drew’s written notice, said that he did not recognise 
Mr. Dick’s right to leave the service of the Lightning 
News Agency at a week’s notice, but, since he evi- 
dently wished to do so, for some preposterous reason 
which he would undoubtedly live to repent, Mr. Pin- 
cumbe would not stand in his way. 

Mr. Eyeslip, Mr. Bradbury, and Mr. Goldy uttered 
criticisms which rather hurt Andrew at the time, al- 
though, in the course of years, he became extremely 
familiar with them. Mr. Eyeslip said, “Some men 
have all the luck,” and then went on with his work. 
Mr. Bradbury observed, “Well, Mr. Dick, I con- 
gratulate you on having been born with a silver spoon 
in your mouth.” Mr. Goldy expressed much the same 
opinion in slightly different words. “This just shows,” 
said Mr. Goldy, “the value of having an Oxford career 
at your back.” 


MERRY-ANDREW 321 

Andrew neither protested nor explained. Who shall 
say that he had not developed since he first came to 
London and took that magnificent apartment in the 
large hotel by the river ? 


CHAPTER XII 


ANDREW LUNCHES AT THE ALHAMBRA HOTEL WITH AN 
EPICUREAN PUBLISHER 

M OST men, in looking back over their careers, 
like to put a finger on a certain event, and 
say, 'That was the turning-point of my 
fortunes.” When Andrew has time to look back 
over his career, he will probably select, as the turning- 
point of his fortunes, not the morning upon which 
he told the examiners in Honour Theology that Isaiah 
alluded to the Arabians as being distinguished for 
the excellence of their cavalry; not the morning when 
he took breakfast with Mr. Theophilus Crichton and 
Mr. Leviticus Foottit ; not the forenoon when he dared 
to show the great Plumbridge that he had a soul of 
his own; not the afternoon of the same day when he 
found himself in a cell at Night Street; not the meet- 
ing next morning with Mr. Inchboard; not the day 
when he yielded to the blandishments of young Mr. 
Petch and accepted the invitation to spend a thoroughly 
jolly term at Floodington; not his introduction to 
those brilliant conversationalists, the Weevill family; 
not his conversation under the old Warwickshire elms 
with the beautiful and celebrated Miss Mona Swin- 
hoe ; and not even the afternoon when he managed to 
make a good impression upon Mr. George Baradale. 
Important as were all these links in the chain, they 
322 


MERRY-ANDREW 


led but to a certain point, namely, the longed-for foot- 
ing in Fleet Street. The event upon which he will 
probably place his finger, because it opened up to 
him a wider sphere, is the day when he received the 
following letter: 


Paternoster Row. 

May 7th, 19—. 

Andrew Dick Esq., 

Offices of “The Studio.” 

Dear Sir, 

If you will do me the honour of lunching with me at the 
Alhambra Hotel on Thursday next at 1.30, I have a sugges- 
tion to make to you which I think will interest you. 

Yours sincerely, 

Cecil Punt. 


Andrew accepted the invitation. He had by this 
time been Assistant-Editor of “The Studio” for two 
years; two very happy and quite prosperous years. 
He had found Mr. Baradale the most kindly and gen- 
erous of Editors. It had never been necessary for 
Andrew to hint that he would like to write for “The 
Studio”; Mr. Baradale had been almost embarrassing 
in his demands for contributions from Andrew’s pen. 
The Editor had even given him a page to himself, 
wherein Andrew might write each week an article in 
his own light vein on some topic of the moment. 
These articles were illustrated by a well-known black- 
and-white artist, and, in due course, a number of 
them, together with the illustrations, had been bound 
and issued to the world at the price of one shilling. 
This little volume, unimportant though the world con- 
sidered it, was of very great importance to Andrew. 
Not only was it his first book — and the thrill he ex- 
perienced on seeing his name on the title-page of a 


SM MERRY-ANDREW 

real book for the first time is one of the memories of 
his lifetime — but it was also the means of bringing him 
the invitation from Mr. Cecil Punt. 

Mr. Punt, a few years previous to this date, had 
arrived at one bound in the very centre of the be- 
wildered publishing world. He was a very able 
young man, very enterprising, very alert, very cool, 
very sleek. Obviously, therefore, there was nothing 
to keep Mr. Punt from obtaining a very great 
position indeed — always provided that he published 
the right books. Mr. Punt himself was quite sure 
that he would always publish the right books, for the 
simple reason that he knew precisely what the read- 
ing public wanted to read. He proved that he 
knew what the reading public wanted to read by 
publishing several books that the reading public did 
read; in point of fact, Mr. Punt was being looked 
upon with no little awe, mingled with a wholesome 
amount of trepidation, at the time when he singled 
out Mr. Andrew Dick and invited him to lunch with 
him at the Alhambra. 

Andrew, to tell the truth, had never been inside the 
Alhambra Hotel in his life. He had often dined with 
Mr. Baradale, both at public banquets, to which they 
were invited in their official capacities, and also at a 
little restaurant in Soho where Mr. Baradale was very 
well known, and of which he was exceedingly fond.’ 
But the public banquets were not held at the Alham- 
bra, and Andrew, being at heart a modest youth, had 
never summoned up sufficient courage to push his 
way into this gorgeous place and demand food. 

When he arrived at the hotel, carefully shaved 
and dressed, an appallingly splendid flunkey, who 


MERRY-ANDREW 


325 


actually condescended to speak and move as though 
he were one-tenth human, informed Andrew that 
Mr. Punt had already arrived, and was awaiting 
him in the restaurant. Two other flunkeys stepped 
forward, one making himself responsible for Andrew’s 
hat, and the second assuming sole charge of Andrew’s 
stick. They had the air of men who, having under- 
taken a solemn and laborious duty, would not lightly 
shrink from the task. Andrew then followed a fourth 
flunkey into the restaurant. His ideas were expanding 
as rapidly as a soap bubble at the end of a clay pipe. 

Mr. Punt rose to greet him with a charming smile 
and outstretched hand. 

“I hope,” was almost his first remark, "“that you like 
snails, Mr. Dick?” 

Andrew confessed, with a feeling of shame, that 
he had never eaten a snail in his life. He had often 
seen snails slowly climbing the walls in his father’s 
garden, but it had never occurred to him to take them 
into the kitchen and have them cooked. 

“Then the sooner you begin,” said Mr. Punt, “the 
more time you will have to remedy that omission. 
I’ve ordered snails because I wanted to give you a 
special treat. If you don’t like them, just pass them 
along to me. They’re one of the passions of my 
life.” 

Since Mr. Punt made such a point of the delicacy, 
Andrew felt bound to do his duty by them. Watch- 
ing Mr. Punt very carefully, then, he dug the fork 
provided for that purpose into the snail, withdrew it 
from its shell, and made an attempt, genuinely heroic 
under the circumstances, to swallow it. 


326 MERRY-ANDREW 

“How d’you like it?” asked Mr. Punt, himself 
revelling. 

“I’m awfully sorry,” said Andrew, “but I think it’s 
simply beastly.” 

“They may be an acquired taste, but I assure you 
the taste is worth acquiring. However, don’t you 
bother with them if you’d rather not. Just hand them 
over here.” 

Whilst Mr. Punt was polishing off Andrew’s por- 
tion of snails, Andrew looked about him, and fancied 
that he could recognise several of the eminent ladies 
and gentlemen whose portraits had been published 
in the pages of “The Studio.” They did not look quite 
so fresh as their portraits, but there they were, all 
alive and eating, and it was very nice to feel that he 
was moving in what the society papers call the “great 
world.” He made up his mind that Mr. Cecil Punt 
must be a very prosperous young man, especially 
when, the lunch being over, and a move made to the 
lounge for coffee and cigarettes, Mr. Punt carelessly 
told the waiter to put the amount of his bill to his 
account. 

“Now,” began Mr. Punt, when they were comfort- 
ably settled under the leaf of a huge palm, with coffee 
and liqueurs on a little table between them, and a 
band playing American music at the back of their 
heads, “I’ll tell you why I asked you to meet me 
here.” 

“What?” shouted Andrew, for they were so near 
the band that he had hardly heard three words of 
Mr. Punt’s speech. 

“I said,” bellowed Mr. Punt, “that I would now tell 
you why I asked you to meet me here!” 


MERRY-ANDREW 


327 


“Oh!” yelled Andrew. 

“What?” shrieked Mr. Punt. 

“I only said, ‘Oh !’ ” bellowed Andrew. 

“Oh! ... It is rather noisy here, isn't it?” 
“What?” 

“I say, it's rather noisy here!” 

“Very! D’you understand lip-reading?” 

“What?” 

“I say, d’you understand lip-reading?” 

Mr. Punt laughed, and they postponed their con- 
versation until the end of the tune. 

“Now we can get to business,” said Mr. Punt, 
speaking very rapidly lest the band should begin again. 
“Fve been reading your little book, and I want you to 
write a book for me. Is there any reason why you 
shouldn’t ?” 

“I don’t know of any reason,” replied Andrew, 
rather puzzled. 

“I mean, have you any contract with another pub- 
lisher?” 

“No, I’ve no contract at all.” 

“Good. Then I’ll tell you the sort of book I want 
you to write. I want a humorous book, but it must 
be really funny. It must be so funny that every- 
body will be laughing over it, and everybody will be 
talking about it. It must be quite simply written, but 
full of funny situations and jolly humanity. It must 
be not more than fifty thousand words in length, and 
I shall publish it at three-and-sixpence. I shall have 
it illustrated by one of the best black-and-white artists 
of the day. It will be lavishly illustrated — about a 
million drawings. I shall advertise the book enor- 
mously — sandwichmen all up and down the streets, 


MERRY-ANDREW 


the whole of the front page of the 'Daily Mail/ huge 
chunks in all the other papers, everything ! 

"But there are two conditions. I must buy the 
book outright for a lump sum down; that’s the first 
condition. And the second condition is that I must 
have the first refusal of your two succeeding books. 
It’s only fair that if I make your name for you I 
get some benefit out of it after it is made. Now, what 
sum will you want me to pay you for writing such a 
book as I have described? Don’t hurry. Take your 
time. Think it well over.” 

The band played another tune, during which An- 
drew thought the offer well over. As soon as the tune 
was finished, he turned to Mr. Punt and said: "I’m 
sorry, but I’m afraid I can’t do it.” 

Mr. Punt gleamed at him very hard indeed through 
his monocle. 

"Why d’you say you can’t do it? D’you realise that 
you’re turning up your nose at an offer that at least 
a thousand authors would jump at?” 

"Yes, I quite realise that, but I’m afraid I can’t ac- 
cept it, all the same.” 

"Well, you’re a very extraordinary young man. I 
should like to know your objection.” 

"That’s quite simple. If I write this book, and 
you advertise it enormously, I shall come before the 
public as a humorous writer. Once a humorous writer, 
always a humorous writer. I’ve seen it happen even 
in my short experience, and I don’t want it to happen 
to me. I don’t want to be a humorous writer all my 
life, and the public won’t let you be serious if you 
make your name with a humorous book. I’m very 
flattered, of course, that you should have made me the 


MERRY-ANDREW 


offer, and I need hardly say that I’m very much 
tempted to accept it, but I made up my mind on 
certain points before I ever came to London, and 
that’s one of them.” 

Mr. Punt removed his monocle, polished it with 
great deliberation, fixed it again in his eye, and sud- 
denly flashed it at Andrew. 

“If you’ll allow me to say so, Mr. Dick, you’re 
talking the greatest nonsense I ever heard in my life. 
Have you ever heard of ‘The Pickwick Papers’? 
Who wrote those ? Charles Dickens. Very well. Did 
Charles Dickens go on writing Pickwick Papers all 
his life? Did the public turn up their noses at ‘The 
Old Curiosity Shop,’ and ‘David Copperfield,’ and 
‘Barnaby Rudge,’ and ‘A Tale of Two Cities’? Did 
they insist that Dickens should never be pathetic? 
Why, good gracious, Dickens’s pathos contributed as 
much to his success as his humour. And that’s the 
greatest combination you can possibly have — pathos 
and humour.” 

“But you want me to be funny all the time,” argued 
Andrew. 

“No, I don’t. I want you to be funny nearly all 
the time. You can drop in a little touch of pathos 
now and again, if you like. I don’t mind. I’ll chuck 
that in. You won’t do it well because your’re not 
old enough, and bad pathos is almost as sickening as 
bad humour; but if you’re so set on being sad, my 
dear boy, why, be sad, and be happy ! But you must 
limit the amount. I can’t have you slopping over with 
your pathos all up and down the pages. You must 
use it sparingly. Well, what d’you say?” 

Crash! Bang! Crash! The band was at it again, 


330 


MERRY-ANDREW 


and they had to smoke their cigarettes in silence for 
five minutes. That five minutes had a marked effect 
on Andrew. The introduction of the name of Dick- 
ens had done the trick for Mr. Punt. Before the band 
had played its final screaming blast, he had decided to 
write the book. 

“Good,” said Mr. Punt. “Now with regard to 
terms. How much d’you want? Straight sale, you 
understand. I do just what I please with the book — 
serialise it, or dramatise it, or publish it in America, 
or sell the Continental rights — any mortal thing. How 
much d’you want?” 

Out of his first little book, Andrew had made 
precisely ten pounds — apart, that is to say, from the 
amount received week by week for the articles in “The 
Studio.” The book itself had brought him in ten 
pounds. If Mr. Cecil Punt had invited him to his 
office, and there brought forward the proposition for 
this book, Andrew would probably have mentioned 
some comparatively modest amount. But the splen- 
dour of the Alhambra Hotel, and the luxury of snails 
in their shells, had fired his imagination and whetted 
his appetite. Assuming, therefore, as casual an air as 
he could contrive, he flicked the ash from his cigarette 
on to the carpet of the Alhambra Hotel, and replied : 

“Two hundred and fifty pounds.” 

“Too much,” said Mr. Punt, almost before the words 
were out of Andrew’s mouth. In point of fact, Mr. 
Punt spoke so quickly that one might almost have 
thought that he had made up his mind to say “too 
much” before hearing Andrew’s demand. 

“That’s the price,” said Andrew. 

“Can’t be done.” 


MERRY-ANDREW 


331 


“Then it’s off.” 

“Give you two hundred — take it or leave it.” 

“Take it,” said Andrew. 

Mr. Punt was as good as his word. The book was 
lavishly illustrated by a well-known black-and-white 
artist; he did have sandwichmen to advertise it all 
up and down the streets ; he did take the whole of the 
front page of the “Daily Mail”; he did have huge 
chunks in all the other papers. And the reviewers, 
who are invariably kind to new authors if they show 
any promise, were kind to Andrew. They did not 
praise him sufficiently to turn his head, but they set 
him on the broad high-road of authorship. 

It was shortly after this event that Andrew, all 
unwittingly, made his first enemy. The cause and ex- 
tent of that enmity does not concern us in this story, 
and the fact itself would have been allowed to pass 
without mention but that it constituted another sig- 
nificant stage in Andrew's history. It proved that 
he had traversed all the difficult miles between lunch- 
cake and snails in their shells. 


CHAPTER XIII 


THE MYSTERY OF SYLVIA — AND THE SOLUTION 

W ITHIN a few weeks of the day when An- 
drew’s name first came prominently before 
the reading public, the gentle Mrs. Kester- 
ton touched the electric bell that hung over her bed, 
and told the maid that she wished to speak with Miss 
Sylvia. Sylvia at once hurried to her mother, for 
she had been warned by the doctor that the end was 
not very far off, and might come quite suddenly. 
When she entered the room, Mrs. Kesterton was lying 
upon her pillows, the sweet faint smile that had become 
habitual through so many years still upon her face. 
She beckoned to Sylvia to sit down upon the bed at 
her side, and then took one of her daughter’s hands 
in both her own. 

“You mustn’t be frightened, darling, but I think 
I am going now. I don’t want you to cry if you can 
help it, because I should like my last glimpse of you 
to be soothing and cheerful. Everything is all in or- 
der. You need not feel compelled to marry unless you 
like, but I hope you’ll marry Andrew. I always 
think of you together.” 

Sylvia, forcing back her tears with a great effort, 
because she knew that her mother would be troubled 
if she cried, asked whether she should send for the 
doctor. 

“No, my darling, the poor man did everything he 
332 


MERRY “ANDREW 333 

could a long time ago. I don’t want him here now. 
I want to have these last few minutes quite alone 
with you. ... You know, Sylvia, you must never be 
frightened about dying. People distress themselves so 
much about it that most of them, I think, spoil their 
lives. It’s such a pity, because this last sleep is the 
most beautiful gift that Nature has to bestow. I’ve 
thought a great deal about these matters lying here in 
this quiet old house so many months, and I see quite 
clearly that one is not really one’s body ; it is the soul 
that is really ourselves. If you think of the growth 
of a flower you will understand what I mean. First 
of all, the flower is just a little seed in the dark earth, 
and it has to push its way through this earth before 
it can grow up, and blossom, and give forth its beau- 
tiful scent and colour to the world. Well, I think 
of the soul as the flower, and of the body as the 
earth. . . . 

“I’m always so sorry for the poor people who can’t 
understand that, because it must be dreadful to be- 
lieve that the soul dies with the body. It must make 
everything so sordid. . . . I’m glad I’ve been given the 
strength to say all this to you; these puzzling things 
become so very clear just as one is about to leave the 
body, and I wanted them to be clear to you.” 

Sylvia bent down and kissed the still faintly smil- 
ing lips. Then, as Mrs. Kesterton closed her eyes, 
the girl sat very still, her hands clasped in those frail 
ones from which the little flicker of remaining strength 
imperceptibly departed. 

When Sylvia had been alone in the world long 
enough for the first grief to have subsided, Andrew 


334 


MERRY-ANDREW 


wrote to her and asked her if she could not arrange 
some date, however distant, for their marriage. Her 
reply, although as full of love and tenderness as ever, 
was distinctly evasive. There were things to settle, 
she said, before she could settle herself. Then she had 
promised to pay visits to various friends and rela- 
tives, so that Andrew must not be surprised if her 
letters were not very frequent, and came from all 
sorts of addresses. 

This puzzled him. He could understand that there 
were things to settle, and he could understand that 
she would have to visit various relatives, but why 
should that prevent her from writing to him? And 
why, when she did write to him, was he told to address 
his reply to a Post Office? There was some mys- 
tery about the whole affair, and he did not at all like 
the look of it. Sylvia, in short, was “up to some- 
thing.” Andrew challenged her with being “up to 
something” in his letters, but she merely laughed at 
his suspicions, and would not enlighten him. 

On a certain morning, there arrived at “The Studio” 
office a parcel bearing the name of a well-known 
photographer at Floodington. Andrew opened the 
parcel, and found that it contained some extremely 
good photographs of a local professional production of 
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” The Manager of 
this particular theatre was famous for his Shake- 
spearean productions, which often ran ten or twelve 
weeks, or even more. Thinking that it would please 
the Floodingtonians to see their Manager’s efforts 
recognised in the pages of “The Studio,” Andrew 
turned over the photographs and examined them rather 
carefully. 


MERRY-ANDREW 335 

One of the pictures struck him as being particularly 
charming. It showed a group of fairies surrounding 
Bottom the Weaver. The girls were unusually pretty, 
and one face in particular appealed to Andrew. He 
took up the magnifying-glass that always lay on his 
desk, and studied this face more attentively. And it 
was then he realised, with one of the most profound 
shocks that he had ever received in his life, that he was 
either looking at Sylvia or her exact double. 

Was it possible? Was this the explanation of her 
curious behaviour? Had she, all those long months 
and even years in that quiet country village, been 
secretly cherishing a passion for the stage? Andrew 
snatched her latest letter from his pocket, and found, 
although it gave no address, that the envelope bore 
the Floodington postmark. 

He decided instantly what he must do. Obtaining 
leave of absence from Mr. Baradale, he dashed round 
to his rooms, thrust some things into a bag, and caught 
the noon express to Floodington. Of course there 
was no matinee, and so he filled in his time by taking 
a look at Bayfield College, and even ventured to saun- 
ter past the home of the lambent-eyed Miss Jessie 
Green. 

At last it was time to go to the theatre, and he 
had the felicity of being the first person to enter the 
stalls. He had secured an end seat, and a pair of 
opera-glasses. He felt nervous, elated, angry, loving, 
haughty, and intensely curious. At the worst, it was 
exciting to think that the mystery would be solved 
before he went to bed that night. 

There was not the slightest doubt in his mind, from 
the moment the fairies entered, that he had discovered 


336 


MERRY-ANDREW 


his Sylvia. But was she his Sylvia? Had she fallen 
in love with some actor, and hurled herself into this 
profession in order to be near him? The Lysander 
was a good-looking ruffian, and the Demetrius was 
just the sort of oaf, so Andrew supposed, to appeal to 
the feminine mind. At one moment he was quite sure 
that it was Lysander for whose sake Sylvia had done 
this mad thing; at the next, when he thought he saw 
her looking at Demetrius, he made up his mind to 
tear that gentleman’s comely head from his body as 
soon as the performance was over. He would dearly 
have loved to execute the ruffian on the stage, but 
that would have made a great scandal, besides fright- 
ening the audience and the company. 

Directly the curtain fell, he hurried round to the 
stage-door, as though he expected that Sylvia would 
emerge from the theatre still dressed as a fairy. All 
sorts of people were passing in and out, and the swing- 
doors were never still for more than a few seconds 
together. 

Presently the orchestra came out, followed very 
shortly afterwards by the supers. Then the company 
began to pass through the swing-doors, and Andrew 
had the satisfaction of seeing Lysander walk off with 
a stout lady, who addressed him as “dearie,” and 
suggested tripe and onions with a nice glass of stout. 
Demetrius also came out, in a soft felt hat very much 
on one side, a cigarette in the corner of his mouth, 
and a little cane under his arm. He glanced at An- 
drew, but immediately looked away again, as though 
he did not wish to defile his beautiful eyes by allowing 
them to rest on ordinary and unworthy objects. 


MERRY-ANDREW 


337 

“He'd be all over me," thought Andrew, “if he knew 
I could publish his beastly portrait in ‘The Studio.’ ’’ 

Two or three little girls, with hair down their backs, 
and their eyes and cheeks still plastered with make-up, 
came next. They lingered in the doorway, laughing 
and talking with the stage-doorkeeper, and occasionally 
glancing up at Andrew from beneath their far too 
black eyelashes. 

And then came Sylvia. She was alone, and had 
taken off all her make-up. She was very quietly 
dressed in a small hat and a long coat reaching to her 
heels. She would have passed Andrew without even 
glancing at him, but he put his hand out and just 
touched her sleeve. Sylvia started, and then turned 
so pale that Andrew was frightened. 

“Sorry," he said. 

“What a start you gave me! What on earth are 
you doing here?" 

“May I walk along with you and explain?" 

“Of course." 

His little story was soon told. It was then Sylvia’s 
turn. 

“You know," she began, “that I always had it in my 
mind when you first went away to London that you 
were leaving me behind. I don’t mean that in any 
sense of reproach; you had to go out into the world, 
you had to fight for your living, and you’ve done it, 
and you’ve won. Now you want me to marry you. 
But we can’t marry yet, Andrew— not for a long 
time.’’ 

“Why not? You can go on with your acting if you 
like.’’ 

“Oh, no, thank you. I haven’t been very long on 


338 


MERRY-ANDREW 


the stage, but already I’ve seen enough to show me the 
folly of that sort of arrangement. If two people who 
are married are both on the stage, and can be in the 
same company, that’s all very well, but if one’s on 
the stage, and the other isn’t, that one should be the 
man and not the woman. You see, the man, in any 
case, must have his work and his career; but when a 
girl is married, that is her work and her career.” 

“And you mean that you prefer the work and the 
career of an actress to the work and the career of be- 
ing my wife?” 

“That’s a very naughty way of putting it,” replied 
Sylvia, smiling at him through the lamplight. “When 
I say that we can’t be married for a long time, I mean 
that it will be a long time before I’m fit to be your 
wife.” 

“What frightful nonsense!” 

“No, it isn’t nonsense. I thought it all out. I 
thought of all the things you’ve done, and all the ex- 
periences you’ve had, and all the people you’ve met; 
you may think you’re the same Andrew that went 
away to London to make his fortune, but you’re not; 
you’re a very different Andrew, and a different An- 
drew would require a different sort of person for his 
wife. He wouldn’t be contented very long with a silly 
little girl from the country who knew nothing, and 
couldn’t understand half the things he was talking 
about. He wants a girl who has come up against life 
just in the same way that he did ; a girl who has been 
through her own battles and won them; a girl who 
can exchange ideas with him, and perhaps even tell 
him a few things that he doesn’t know himself.” 

“Then d’you mean to say that you deliberately went 


MERRY-ANDREW 


339 


on the stage because you thought you weren’t fitted 
to be my wife until you’d seen something of the 
world ?” 

“Yes, that was why I did it.” 

“Then you don’t care a bit about it? Your heart 
isn’t in it?” 

Andrew spoke a shade too eagerly. 

“Oh, I’m not going to be caught like that! I’m 
quite interested in what I’m doing, but I mean to do 
very much better. I mean to work very hard, and 
see if I can’t make a success in my profession. When 
I do, then you may come to me — if you’re not by that 
time a married man with a large family — and ask me 
to marry you.” 

“And if you don’t make a success of it?” 

“Well, then, doesn’t it occur to you that I should 
have been through the mill even more thoroughly than 
if I had made a success?” 

“But I don’t want you to go through the mill! I 
hate the thought of you being mixed up in all this 
sort of thing! You weren’t bom to it; you know 
perfectly well your mother would have hated it ! She’d 
be furious with me for letting you do it!” 

“I don’t think so,” said Sylvia, with a pensive little 
smile. “I think Mother would have been rather as- 
tonished at my having so much sense.” 

“Didn’t she want you to marry me ?” 

“Yes, she wanted us to be married.” 

“And you?” 

“Well, I haven’t married the curate at Eastwood.” 

“Does that mean that you do want to marry me?” 

They had reached the door of her lodgings in a 
deserted, gloomy thoroughfare very familiar to tour- 


340 


MERRY-ANDREW 


in g players. Sylvia mounted the step, took a latch- 
key from her little satchel, and slipped it into the lock 
before replying. 

“I haven’t married the curate at Eastwood,” she 
repeated. 

“Damn the curate at Eastwood!” retorted Andrew. 
“Can’t you have a little pity on a poor devil all alone 
in the world? You say I’ve made good; what’s the 
use of it? What can I do with my money except fling 
it away? D’you expect me to mope at home in the 
evenings? I can’t do it! I should shoot myself! 
It’s just an eternal, sickening round of restaurants, 
and clubs, and theatres, and music-halls ! Yes, I know 
you’ll remind me that I wanted all those things — 
wanted them badly. Well, I’ve got them, and they’re 
no good. I want you, and I want a home, and I want 
somebody to be glad when I do a decent bit of work, 
and somebody to share in my little twopenny triumphs ! 
. . . Frightfully old-fashioned, isn’t it? I don’t care. 
I’m like that. I tell you, Sylvia, I’m speaking the 
(truth from the bottom of my heart when I say that 
I can’t do without you any longer. If you turn me 
down tonight, I’ll start going to the devil tomorrow !” 

“Wouldn’t that be rather weak?” 

“Yes, it would! I am weak! I know where I’m 
weak — that’s why you’ve got to come and help me! 
. . . Oh, darling, for God’s sake don’t leave me in 
the lurch !” 

They were close together on the step. The door 
was still shut. He tried to put his arm about her 
shoulders, but, very gently, she repulsed him. 

“You mustn’t do that.” 

“Why not?” 


MERRY-ANDREW 


341 

“I can’t tell you.” 

“Why not?” 

“Never mind.” 

“But I do mind! You shall tell me! I don’t care 
what happens! You don’t go through that door till 
you’ve given me a jolly sight better reason for not 
marrying me than I’ve had yet! That’s flat!” 

“Don’t be silly, Andrew. You must go away. Good- 
night.” 

For answer, he snatched the key from the lock and 
put it in his pocket. She tried to ring the bell, but 
he caught her by the wrist. 

“You’re hurting me,” she protested. 

“I don’t care!” And he seized the other wrist. 

“This is the way to make me hate you !” 

“Hate me, then!” And he drew her quite close to 
him. 

“I’m not going to kiss you !” 

“Yes, you are!” 

“I’m not! You can’t make me!” 

“Can’t I ?” His lips were on hers, his arms wound 
tightly about her. She could not speak any more; 
she could hardly breathe. The street, and the lamps, 
and the black houses began to swim. She knew that 
she would have fallen had he released her. 

All the forces of Nature gathered about them, work- 
ing for him, working, too, for her. 

Quite involuntarily, scarcely conscious of what she 
was doing, she kissed him. . . . 


THE END 


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of humor are displayed in these ten nonsense novels. ” 

— Washington Star. 

“ Even the most loyal admirers of Sherlock Holmes and his 
marvelous feats of induction and deduction will hardly grudge 
a smile of appreciation to Stephen Leacock. ” — New York Sun. 

“Mr. Leacock bids fair to rival the immortal Lewis Carroll 
in combining the irreconcilable— exact science with perfect humor 
—and making the amusement better the instruction. ” 

— Pall Mall Gazette. 

























































































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